


Match Made in Heaven

by Selenay



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Matchmaking Angels, Mutually Requited Pining, Phil Coulson Has Wings, The Crackfic Wingfic AU, Trope Bingo Round 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson, angel of SHIELD, has a perfect track record at finding matches for mortals. Over his long life, he's never failed a case.</p><p>He's just been assigned to Clint Barton's file.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A large portion of this was written as my NaNoWriMo story and various people have been listening to me wail and gnash my teeth over it for months. Thanks for putting up with me. I pulled the matchmaking square on my Trope Bingo card and I cannot think of a more appropriate fic to write for that square.
> 
> I'm posting this on Christmas Eve, which seems appropriate for the schmoop levels and angel related crackiness of this fic. I want to say thank you to the C/C fandom for being a wonderful home for the last year: you've been a wonderful group of people. May the next year be equally fun and inspirational.

Phil let the thick file drop on the desk with a satisfyingly loud thunk and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I'm not taking this one," he said firmly.

Fury looked up at him with an amused grin. "Clearly there's been a mistake here. In that you think you have a say in which file you get."

"I won't take Barton's file," Phil said.

He wasn't going to let Fury's glare or his air of "fuck you, I'm the boss" get to him. Not this time. Not after he'd given in on the Cage fiasco. That one had all worked out eventually but he still sometimes had nightmares about it.

"You'll take Barton's file," Fury said.

"He's a menace," Phil said. "He falls off things all the time, he has affairs that a blind man could see will never work out and it will _take_ a blind person to get past some of the things he wears. No."

"That's why I need you on this one," Fury said. "Your track record is perfect. You're the best there is. Barton needs that, he needs someone with your skills and your delicate-"

"I'll take Stark's file," Phil said, not even caring that he was interrupting a rare moment of praise. "You've been asking me to take his for the last ten years, I'll take it if you give Barton to someone else."

Fury barked out a laugh. "Too late. Stark's matched."

Phil opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. He blinked. Tried again. Still couldn't make any noise emerge apart from a strangled "Urk".

"Thought you'd react like that," Fury said with a wide grin.

"Who?" Phil managed to force out.

"Hill's buying us drinks for at least the next five years," Fury said smugly. "She nudged a few things and Stark's just getting to the blissfully happy part of falling in love with his secretary."

Phil blinked again. "Pepper Potts? He's falling in love with Pepper Potts, the woman he gave his company to a few weeks ago?"

"Is that what he did? Hill didn't tell me about that part."

"How does Munroe feel about Potts being matched to Stark?" Phil asked. "She's been working on Potts for years."

"Munroe is over the moon," Fury said. "Have you ever tried to match someone with a severe case of UL?"

"Several times," Phil said with a small shrug. "Unrequited love is usually temporary. I've always found suitable matches."

Fury rolled his eye. "Of course you have. And that's why I need you on Barton. Anyone who nudge someone into a match despite a severe case of UL can match Barton."

"I'm not taking Barton," Phil said. "He broke the last two agents you sent after him. Sitwell was crying when you called him back."

"Sitwell is overly emotional sometimes and you've got to admit that he's much better suited to the Second Chances Division than he ever was to this one." Fury raised an eyebrow. "Did you see his work on the Brown-Henderson family?"

"I saw it," Phil admitted. "Sitwell made us go to the wedding."

"Clearly that's a much better fit for him," Fury said. "Barton was the catalyst, not the sole cause of Sitwell's career change."

"I'm still not taking Barton."

"You're taking Barton. Or I can send you to the Teen Love Division."

Phil swallowed hard. Teen Love. Filled with star-crossed lovers and overwrought children and loves that almost never had a happy ending. Most of the files from the Teen Love section ended up being passed on to other divisions the moment the clients hit twenty. There was no expectation of permanent matches there, just the vain attempt to keep the teen lovers in relationships that weren't completely self-destructive.

"You drive a hard bargain," he said unhappily.

Fury shrugged, unconcerned. "That's why they keep me in this position."

"I'll take the file," Phil said. "Just don't expect miracles."

The thick file was suddenly in his hands and Phil tried not to flinch or drop it.

"Well, that might be a problem," Fury said, "as you're in the Miracle Division."

Phil rolled his eyes and felt his wings flick irritably before he managed to get them back under control and lying smoothly along his back. It was now his job to match Clint Barton to some poor innocent person down on the Earth and Phil Coulson had never failed a case yet.

He was so completely screwed.

***

Phil made a large cup of coffee when he got back to his office and settled in to read through Barton's file. After a couple of minutes he considered adding a splash of something stronger to his mug.

He resisted the urge. It was too early in the process to let Barton drive him to drink.

The file had grown since he'd reviewed it after Sitwell's unfortunate collapse. Most of the notes were frustrated updates on Barton's doomed love affairs but there was an intriguing entry near the back of the file.

"He's sworn off love?" Phil muttered before turning the page and nearly spitting out a mouthful of coffee. "He's been celibate for the last eighteen months?"

Barton's file was unusual even for one that ended up in the Miracle Division. Most files had colour coded sections where they had passed through one or two different divisions during the course of a subject's life before they found their permanent match and their file was sent to the Forever Archives. Many of the files--the majority these days--spent time in Temporary Storage along the way and some cycled through it three or four times before reaching their final destination. Most agents with the Strategic Heart Investment, Enamourment and Love Department (Phil had registered four separate protests when an angelic committee decided SHIELD had to stand for something two centuries ago, because that name was ridiculous) kept tallies on how many files they sent to the Archives and there were annual competitions between the divisions.

A few files were never sent to the Archives. Most agents tried not to think too much about what happened to those files: referring a file to the Vault meant there was no hope left, not even the faintest flicker of a possibility that a match could happen one day. Phil had spent a couple of decades a long time ago reviewing Vault referrals, looking for any sign in the subjects' auras that they might be matchable.

Moving to the Miracles Division had been a relief after that. This may be the division for the hard to place and the bad luck cases, but at least there was always a tiny thread of hope for the people sent here. Admitting that someone was destined for a string of short-term affairs with no happily ever after--not even the Temporary Storage kind--got depressing after the first five years.

Barton's file was unusual because it had sections for almost every division in SHIELD without a single Temporary Storage request form. Every agent who had signed off on a transfer to a different division had included notes about "love disaster" and "serial monogamist". The only section that barely covered a page was the Teen Love Division report.

Huh.

Phil had flicked through the file after Sitwell's crisis but he hadn't read any of the early reports, just the notes from Sitwell and his predecessor. Now he read the brief report from Teen Love and raised an eyebrow.

Barton had gone through his teens with only one short-lived and extremely casual affair. Even that one had been pure accident, a relationship that barely lasted long enough to be called a relationship, and the agents assigned to Barton and his lover hadn't been able to explain how it happened because neither of them had done anything.

In fact, Barton's agent appeared to have forgotten him and his file had spent most of the time on her desk while she worked on more exciting cases. Barton had spent his teens running from place to place, finally ending up in the circus and then becoming a superhero after a brief attempt at a life of crime.

That background had to be why he'd been assigned to the Epic Love Division twice. Barton had been setting records all over the place.

Phil got through four cups of coffee while he read the file and made notes. By the time he finished, he'd raised his estimate of how screwed he was from "slightly" to "very".

But he'd also found a core of steely determination that this wouldn't beat him. Barton might be about to put a dent in Phil's perfect matching record, but he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

Phil Coulson was going to find Clint Barton a match if it was the last thing he ever did. He just needed to work out where to start.

***

A fireball roared overhead and Clint swore as he ducked and rolled across the rooftop. His arms stung from a dozen tiny cuts and he felt his hair singe in the heat from the flames.

There were days when being a superhero was all about surviving the pain.

He bounced to his feet and sprinted back to the edge of the roof so he could assess the situation. Most of the flying, fire-breathing lizards were now crumpled forms on the ground and another lizard fell to Thor's lightning as he watched. There were still a few causing havoc, though, including the one who had nearly barbequed him.

That lizard had banked hard while he was down and it was now coming round for another try, its deep red scales almost glittering in the sunlight as it sped toward Clint. He reached over his shoulder for an arrow and swore again: there was only one arrow left. The feel of the fletching told him it was an acid arrow, which would probably do the job on the creature.

Except he could feel the building shaking under his feet, and the grappling arrow he thought he'd saved had obviously been used when he was firing too fast to care what kind of arrow he pulled out as long as it hit something.

There was nothing he could do about it so he pulled out the arrow, nocked, and drew. The lizard was flying straight to him, its mouth opening wide, and Clint could see the red glow of flames starting to spout from deep in its throat. He slowly released the breath he'd been holding before he loosed the arrow and watched it fly. It embedded in the lizard's throat and for a moment nothing happened.

Then the lizard shuddered in the air and Clint could see the acid burning through its scaly skin, creating a hole that widened quickly and allowed flames to spurt out in uncontrolled waves. The creature started to tumble through the air and then, with a massive concussion, it exploded into a ball of fire and burning, stinking flesh.

Clint only had time to admire his work for a second before he realised that the trajectory of the lizard's flaming remains would take them straight to his position. Three people shouted warnings in his earpiece at once, a confused cacophony of voices, but his grappling arrow was long gone and he was standing on a rooftop twenty storeys above the ground with no safe way to escape.

So he did the only sensible thing he could do in the circumstances: he jumped off the roof.

There was always a moment when Clint felt like he was flying rather than falling. When he could almost believe that if he just closed his eyes and tried hard enough, he'd somehow soar into the air. The illusion shattered as soon as he opened his eyes and saw the ground rushing toward him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he though he saw a dark shape in the air beside him. He started to turn his head but something big and green snatched him out of the air, winding him, and Clint was so busy fighting to pull air into his lungs that he forgot all about it.

The Hulk landed on the ground with a loud crash and Clint grunted as the Hulk unceremoniously dropped him. For a while he just lay there, wheezing and groaning.

"Thanks, buddy," he finally managed to say and he patted Hulk's foot weakly. "Great catch."

A wide grin split the Hulk's face before he bounded away. There was a strangled shriek from somewhere in the air above followed by the crash-boom of a lizard getting crushed into concrete. Clint waved vaguely and closed his eyes, listening to the final moments of the battle while he tried to breathe normally and pretend he didn't hurt all over.

***

Clint was collecting up arrows when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and his whole face exploded into pain as someone punched him in the jaw.

Natasha glared at him, her fists up ready to throw another punch if she decided it was necessary. There was a hole in the shoulder of her uniform and the flesh under it was raw and red, her face was covered with soot and sweat. She looked angry and magnificent. Clint held up his hands in a pacifying gesture and carefully waggled his jaw a couple of times.

"Ow, Jeez, Nat, you could have broken my jaw," he complained. "Fuck, you could have broken my _head_. How do you know I don't have a concussion?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Your skull's too thick for a concussion. And I saw the EMTs check you over and give you the all clear."

"Have you seen them yet?" He nodded to the wound on her shoulder. "That looks painful."

"I've seen them," she said, lowering her hands. "It's nothing that won't heal."

Clint pulled another arrow out of a lizard corpse and made a show of examining it for damage. "Want to tell me why you think I deserve a beating? Because the not-dragons already did a pretty good job of it for you."

"You jumped off a building," Natasha said flatly. "Did you know the Hulk would be able to catch you?"

"Ah." Clint shrugged and winced as the gesture pulled on his grazed skin. "Someone usually does."

"One day, you'll jump off something and nobody will be there to catch you."

"Yeah, but today wasn't that day."

Natasha swore at him in Russian and Clint grinned at her. They began slowly walking back to the area where the rest of the Avengers were watching two EMTs try to persuade Tony to have the cuts on his face stitched. Tony gestured wildly with his hands, which had about as much effect on the EMTs as it did on Pepper. Clint recognised one of them as the guy who had checked his head and made pained noises at the cuts and light burns on his arms. The guy was kind of cute, if he'd been into the floppy dark hair and big puppy eyes look.

They stopped a few feet away and watched for a moment. The EMT looked up, spotting Clint and grinning at him before the argument with Tony pulled his attention away.

"He asked me to give you his phone number," Natasha said softly. "You should take it."

Clint bumped her shoulder. "You know I'm not dating right now."

"Or ever again, at this rate."

"You know why I'm taking a break."

Natasha nudged him sharply in the ribs and a moment later he felt her slipping a piece of paper into his hand. "You're not taking a break, Clint. You're running scared."

"I'm admitting that being an Avenger and having a relationship don't work together," he said firmly.

"It seems to be working for Tony," Natasha said.

"Pepper is different."

"That guy could be, too."

Clint shook his head. "He's not. Just let it rest, Tasha. I'm done with the dating game."

She sighed but didn't say anything, although she pressed his fingers closed around the scrap of paper before she released his hand. Tony won his argument and flipped his faceplate down before grabbing Steve around the waist and flying away. The paper in Clint's hand was tempting for a moment, but he crumpled it and let it fall to the ground before following Natasha to the alley where they'd stored their bikes.

***

Phil sat on a window ledge three floors up and watched Barton speed away on a motorbike. The bike was sleek and fast and Barton wasn't wearing a helmet or any kind of protective gear apart from his uniform.

His sleeveless uniform. Phil had already made several irritated notes in the file about that. Considering how much of the fight Barton had spent either rolling around on gravel or nearly being incinerated, a sleeveless uniform seemed like a completely unnecessary risk. By the time it ended, Barton's arms had been covered with tiny cuts and minor burns. Nothing worse than a bad sunburn, but that wasn't the point.

Phil chose not to examine too closely why he'd been watching Barton's arms so much. It was probably important for his reports.

The moment when Barton had inexplicably thrown himself off the roof without any kind of safety line had startled Phil so badly he'd been in the air and diving after him before he could think. Phil wasn't even sure what he thought he'd accomplish; he couldn't affect anything physically and keeping Barton company as he plummeted to his messy death was probably unnecessary.

If this was the kind of thing Barton did regularly, it was no wonder he'd broken so many agents. Finding someone who could actually cope with his lifestyle on a long-term basis already seemed like an impossible task.

Phil made one last note, closed the file, and faded away.

***

SHIELD's largest complex, the Hub, had changed its appearance many times over the years as it kept up with the fashions and fads of mankind's imagination. It currently looked like a high tech office building. Admittedly the men and women in sober business suits all had wings on their backs and a few people--the old traditionalists--still wore flowing robes in white and shades of pink, but in every other way if a mortal dropped into a corridor in the Hub, they probably wouldn't have felt out of place.

And because it was currently modelled on an office building, it also had several break rooms providing terrible coffee and an unending supply of fresh bagels and doughnuts.

Phil let Barton's file fall with a thump on one of the low coffee tables in break room nearest his office and joined the crowd around the buffet table. Nobody would steal the file, after all, not while he was the agent assigned to it. By the time he'd poured a large mug of coffee and piled two powdered doughnuts and a jelly one on a plate, the grouping of chairs he'd chosen had several new occupants. He winced as Darcy propped her feet up on the coffee table.

"Hey, boss," she said as he sat down.

"Don't call me that," he said automatically.

Darcy shrugged. "Old habits die hard."

Phil rolled his eyes.

Sitwell and Melinda May were also lounging in chairs with coffee and donuts in hand. There was an odd expression in Sitwell's eyes as he looked at Barton's file.

"I thought his case was going to the Vault," Sitwell said, poking the file cautiously with a stir stick. "What the fuck happened?"

Phil bit into a doughnut and used the chewing time to carefully consider his reply. "He's not a candidate for the Vault."

"How do you know that?" Darcy asked curiously.

May lifted an eyebrow. "He didn't tell you about his time on the audit team?"

Darcy's jaw dropped for a moment before she leaned over and thumped Phil on the arm. Her wings fluffed up for a moment, the deep green feathers catching the light, before she made a visible effort to control them and force them to lie flat along her spine again. As good as Darcy was as an agent, her habit of letting her emotions show through her wings was going to hold her back until she learned to control it. Phil had been trying to teach her that for a long time and he was starting to think it was something she'd never learn.

Sitwell and May just sat with carefully blank expressions, which Phil knew meant they were laughing on the inside. They'd both found it hilarious when he got tagged as Darcy's mentor, because they were cruel bastards who enjoyed watching him suffer. Phil was never going to tell them how much he'd grown to enjoy tutoring Darcy; it would give them far too much satisfaction.

"Why didn't you tell me you were an Auditor?" Darcy asked.

Phil shrugged, feeling a small burst of pride that his wings _didn't_ ruffle even though he definitely felt a little ruffled around the edges. "Most agents don't like to think about Auditors. It means admitting that we've failed someone."

"If they can't be matched..."

"At some stage in their lives," Phil said firmly, "everyone can be matched. Even if it takes more than one lifetime. It's our job to find the match before time runs out. When a file is sent to the Vault, it means we've missed something."

"Oh." Darcy frowned. "Have you all had to send files to audit?"

Nobody looked at Phil. Sitwell's heavy, silver grey wings drooped slightly and May's small dark red wings flicked out for a moment before settling.

"What?" Darcy asked curiously. "Did I ask a bad question?"

"We've had to send files to audit," Sitwell said carefully. "All agents do. Except for him."

Sitwell gestured with a wing and the breeze he created threatened to send the powdered sugar flying off all the doughnuts. Phil just about resisted the urge to curl over his plate protectively but he was less successful in fighting down the urge to wince as he felt Darcy's eyes fall on him.

"Never?" Darcy asked.

There was a hint of quiet pride in May's voice as she said, "He's the only agent in the history of SHIELD with a one hundred per cent success record. That's why he was an Auditor for a while: if anyone can see a sign of hope, it's him."

Darcy's expression was just on the polite side of pouting. "How come I never learn about this shit? I've been an agent for years-"

"Two years," Phil corrected, ignoring Darcy's irritated glare. "And you're still on probation. Generally, we try not to let new agents know much about the Vault cases until you've been working on your own for a while. Some divisions have a very low rate of Vault referrals."

"Divisions like, maybe, Teen Love? And College Romance?" Darcy narrowed her eyes. "You deliberately put newbies into the easy sections, don't you?"

Phil shrugged wordlessly.

"We try not to shatter your hopes too early," May said with a small sharp smile.

"In case I give up? I'm a lot tougher than that."

"So that you don't start thinking of a Vault referral as an easy way to deal with some of the more difficult files," Phil said. "Everyone we try to match deserves our best efforts, no matter what they do."

"Or how many buildings they jump off," Sitwell added sourly.

"No matter what they do," Phil said firmly.

"How do we know if someone is unmatchable?" Darcy asked curiously. "Just in case."

"It's all about auras," Sitwell said. "Watch their auras."

"Gold means available, silver means matched," Darcy recited. "What colour are the unmatchable ones?"

There was an awkward silence for a long moment. Even May looked uncomfortable and her short wings twitched as she looked from face to face. This was the talk Fury usually gave agents when they were graduating from probationary status so Darcy wasn't due to hear it for at least another six months. She wouldn't even see an unmatchable until long after that unless she somehow found herself in one of the more difficult divisions.

Phil still wasn't entirely clear why he'd been asked to mentor her, given his status in Miracles. Possibly they thought she'd respect a sober older agent more than one of the racier agents like May.

Eventually May sighed at all of them and leaned forward. "An unmatchable mortal has no aura. Or their aura is corrupted. Trust me, you'll know a corrupted aura when you see one."

"Oh," Darcy said quietly. "So the Auditors..."

Phil swallowed the last of his jelly doughnut. "They look for any sign that a corrupted aura can be repaired. If it can, they refer the case on to the division that can help."

"And if it's gone?"

"They make sure," Phil said firmly. "They double check and triple check for any sign. Sometimes it's so faint most agents miss it. If there's even a hint of an aura left, there's still hope."

"How does Barton's aura look?" Sitwell asked. "It was getting pretty faint when I had his case."

"It's there," Phil said carefully.

"And it's still gold?" May asked.

"It's still gold."

"Huh," Sitwell said.

"So why is everyone looking at his file like it's an unexploded bomb?" Darcy asked.

Sitwell smiled widely. "Bring me a bagel and I'll explain the history of Clint Barton and his disastrous love life. It's not a problem finding someone he connects with, he just can't seem to imprint on anyone for long enough before he does something stupid and scares them away."

"Like jump off buildings," May said.

"Or almost get incinerated by dragons," Phil added, grimacing at the memory.

"Really? He did that?" Sitwell's grin widened. "Shit, Phil, you're screwed. Your record is getting trashed."

"I'll match him," Phil said. "If it's the last thing I do, I'll match him to someone."

Sitwell just laughed.

***

Clint looked at the shiny black object in Tony's hands and frowned. "Why do I need a new quiver?"

"What do you mean, why do you need a new quiver?" Tony asked indignantly. "You always need new stuff! Who doesn't need new stuff? Nobody, that's who."

"I've got three quivers that work great," Clint said. "I put arrows in, I take arrows out. That's what quivers do."

"And you have to predict what type of arrows you're going to want," Tony said. "So if you run out of acid ones, you have to make do with something else when what you really needed was an entire quiver filled with acid arrows. This quiver is special. You hit a button on your new bow-"

"I have a new bow?"

"-and the quiver attaches the type of arrowhead you want," Tony finished, ignoring Clint's protest. "You can fit five full sets of different arrowheads in and I've even made sure you've got three grappling heads for the next time you decide to jump off a twenty storey building."

Clint ran a hand over the sleek coating of the quiver and tried to pretend he couldn't see a dark shape in the corner of his eye. It had been there for days, a shadow lurking just outside his range of vision. Every now and again he tried quickly turning his head, just to see whether he could catch it, but nothing seemed to work.

He hadn't mentioned it to anyone in case they decided he was crazy. There was always a chance they could be right, but he felt sane and a half-seen dark shape didn't seem like the most obvious sign of incipient supervillain-style weirdness.

"Want to take it for a test drive?" Tony asked.

There was no arguing with Tony when he was in one of these moods and Clint was curious about the new tech. The idea of someone else tampering with his bows made his skin itch, but he'd known Tony for long enough now to know that Tony would need reasons beyond "ugh, don't touch my stuff" for rejecting improvements to his equipment.

Sometimes Tony didn't take 'no' for an answer even if Clint had neatly typed bullet pointed lists of why Tony's idea was clearly a bad one, but having the data to back up his 'no' usually helped.

Shortly after Clint moved in with the rest of the Avengers, Tony had built a practise range in the Tower that was better than anything Clint had used before. They went there to test the new toys and picked a target at the far end that he wouldn't regret destroying if he needed to blow something up. Clint rolled his shoulders to loosen them up and stripped off the warm hoodie he'd been wearing when Tony dragged him away from breakfast. The range was always a little cooler than the rest of the Tower but he'd warm up fast as he shot.

Unless the new tech exploded when he tried to shoot with it. That was always a risk with Tony's inventions. Then Clint would probably wish he'd had the protection of the hoodie instead of the sleeveless t-shirt he'd been wearing underneath, but sleeves got in the way when he was shooting.

He strapped on an arm guard and shooting glove while Tony explained how the settings on the bow and quiver worked. It all seemed fairly straightforward.

"The draw's too light," Clint commented as he tested the string.

Tony shrugged. "So I'll build you stronger limbs in the mark two. Not my biggest concern right now."

"You're assuming I'm going to want a mark two."

"I like to assume."

The button on the bow's riser was perfectly placed to be under Clint's index finger if he shifted his grip slightly, but not so close that he might accidentally hit it mid-shot. There was a quiet whirr from the quiver as he double clicked to select an explosive arrowhead and immediately reached back for it.

***

Phil folded his arms across his chest and watched as Barton nocked the arrow, drew and loosed in one smooth movement. The muscles in his arms and across his shoulders rippled with the motion and for some strange reason, Phil felt his mouth go slightly dry.

It was probably a result of the explosion when the arrow hit its target, Phil reasoned.

Watching Barton work with the new bow and quiver wasn't strictly necessary to his task, but it always helped to build up a picture of someone's everyday life before he got serious about finding a match. That's what he'd told himself as he followed Barton to coffee with Natasha yesterday and spent an afternoon watching Barton quietly read and doze on a sofa the day before.

The part where he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off Barton was entirely irrelevant.

Barton selected another arrow and Phil's eyes were drawn to watch the smooth, effortless way pulled back the string. It was obvious that he wasn't completely comfortable with the bow and that was affecting his aim; the grouping of the arrows wasn't as tight as Phil had grown to expect from watching him practise for hours late at night.

Barton selected the non-explosive tips for most of the session, probably to track his progress in getting accustomed to the bow. Explosive and acid arrows destroyed their targets, which was great in combat but not useful to an archer trying to see groupings and patterns.

The final arrow Barton shot was a grappling one, sending it high on the wall where it buried in the concrete with a satisfying crunch. Barton tugged at the thin line that trailed from the arrowhead and snorted as it immediately came loose and fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

There was a sheepish shrug from Stark. "How much draw weight do you need to get that secure in a concrete wall?"

"A lot," Barton said. "And the mechanism is too slow. It takes a couple of seconds to load up the arrowhead and I don't always have that."

Stark nodded thoughtfully. "Any other thoughts?"

"The concept's good," Barton said.

"Of course the concept is good. It's my concept."

"What if only some of the arrowheads were swappable?" Barton asked. "Let me use my regular arrows with, say, two-thirds of the quiver and we can have a separate section with the fancy ones."

"Huh, that might be possible." Stark's eyes lit up. "Yeah, we could do that. It would give me more space to pack in a wider selection if we're putting in fewer interchangeables overall. How will you tell which are the special ones?"

"Same way I do right now--I remember where I put them and they're all fletched differently, so I can feel if I've picked up the wrong ones."

"You're just full of good ideas today," Stark said cheerfully. "Come on, let's get working."

"But I-"

"No, no, you're not doing something else. That's not happening today. You're working with me and we're getting this right before you need to jump off any more buildings."

Phil watched Stark almost drag Barton out of the range. The bright silver of Stark's aura was beautiful and almost made Barton's faint golden aura fade completely.

Some days, Phil wondered how mortals failed to see the auras he couldn't ignore.

***

"How are you getting on?"

Phi looked up to find Fury standing in his office doorway, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that was almost military. It was no wonder that junior agents were terrified of him: between the eye patch and the bulk of his heavy dark blue wings, Fury's appearance in the doorway was deliberately intimidating.

Not that Phil was actually intimidated. He'd known Fury for too long to be put off by carefully posed wings and a long leather coat.

Phil sat back in his chair with a bland smile. "I have Barton under observation and I'm pulling some files for closer examination."

"Huh." Fury's grin was horrible. "Could have sworn you were just following him around and watching him shoot things."

"It's called data gathering."

"What kind of data?"

"Preferences," Phil said, trying to sound firm and decisive. "Habits, potential problem areas and people."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm building a profile."

"Right."

"There's no sense nudging someone into his path who isn't right. Not with someone like Barton. He'll only waste another six months in a relationship that's destined to fail if I do. There's no such thing as 'just one date' for him. It's all or nothing."

"He's really not dating right now, is he?" Fury said, amusement dancing in his eye. "It's not just a rumour, he's sworn off the whole thing."

Phil sighed. "I can fix that."

"Uh huh." Fury's horrible smile didn't fade. "I trust you, Coulson. If anyone can do this, it's you."

"Thank you for your confidence, sir," Phil said. "It's very reassuring."

Fury's laughter echoed down the hallway as he left and Phil decided to rest his head on his desk for a little while with his wings forming a protective, sound-dampening shell over him.

***

Clint had a couple of coffee shops around the city that he liked, but the _Happy Cup_ was his favourite despite the unpromising name because the coffee was good and nobody gave a fuck that he was a superhero. He could sit in the corner with his coffee and muffin for hours without being asked for an autograph--or more often, Steve's phone number--and that made it the perfect retreat when things in the Tower got too loud.

The smell of coffee hit him as soon as he entered, putting an involuntary smile on his face, and he received an answering smile from the pretty blonde barista behind the counter.

"What can I get you today?" she asked.

"A large Americano, Maggie," Clint said and pointed at the glass display of muffins and cakes. "What's good today?"

Maggie's smile turned a touch flirtatious, which was definitely new, as she tilted her head and examined the cabinet. "How do you feel about lemon raspberry ripple loaf?"

"It sounds different."

"Swear to god, it's good," Maggie said as she started quickly and efficiently making the coffee. "The boss found a new indie baker and this is one of her specialities. I thought I'd gone to heaven when I tried it earlier."

"With that kind of recommendation, how can I say no?" Clint said.

The smirk and wink Maggie shot him over her shoulder were new as well and Clint frowned. Was there something odd happening? Something he should alert the team to? Maggie was sweet and chatty, but she didn't usually flirt with him.

When he found a phone number scrawled on the side of his cup after he sat down, Clint stared at it for a long minute. It wasn't that Maggie was unattractive: she was cute, funny and pretty, all things he usually went for.

It just seemed a little odd that she'd suddenly start flirting with him after months of carefully neutral friendliness. In fact, Clint hadn't seen her flirt with any of the customers since she started working at the _Happy Cup_ so this was definitely out of character. He watched the other customers in the shop but he couldn't see anything unusual. Nobody was suddenly necking in the corner or fucking on the couch or any of the other things he'd seen people do under the influence of weird pollens.

Maggie wasn't even flirting with the other customers. It had just been him.

Clint frowned. It was definitely odd behaviour but he had to conclude after a few minutes that it wasn't an Avengers type of oddness. He drank his coffee and ate his cake (which was as good as Maggie had promised) quickly and threw the cup with its phone number in the trash as he left.

***

Phil watched Maggie sigh as Clint left. He frowned.

"I told you that wouldn't work," Sitwell said.

They were sitting at an unoccupied table in the coffee shop and Sitwell had been enjoying the whole thing far too much.

"It should have worked," Phil said. "She's perfect for him: her father and brother are cops so she's used to caring for people with dangerous, unpredictable jobs. She's intelligent, physically active and she adapts well to unexpected changes. And according to Barton's history, she's the type of person he's often attracted to."

Sitwell shrugged. "He isn't attracted, he isn't looking and he's a paranoid fuck. She's also got cops in the family and she wants someone safe. It was never going to work, you're going to have to crawl back to the College Romance Division and return her file."

Phil glared at the slim file he'd put on top of Barton's on the table in front of him. "You're enjoying this far too much."

"Fuck yes, this is the best entertainment I've had since Munroe got given the Storm kids' files."


	2. Chapter 2

A week passed, a week that Clint spent crawling through New York's finest sewers hunting for monsters. It was a really unpleasant week. 

He mostly forgot about the shadowy presence that had been haunting him because the sewers were dark, stinking, and filled with things that flitted around and watched him. Figuring out whether the itch on the back of his neck was from a weird shadow or a rat considering him for lunch was impossible. They both felt the same and Clint got used to the sensation of being watched without even realising it was happening.

When Banner announced that the last of the creatures had been caught--the only good thing about the college students who had released giant mutant rodents into the sewers was that they were excellent record keepers--Clint's most urgent thought was for the shower he was going to take. He didn't even stop to check whether the shadow was still following him when he reached the brightly lit Tower. He just made a beeline for the bathroom in his apartment with every intention of staying in it until he turned into a prune. Living in the same building as Tony Stark could be annoying as hell, but the man knew what he was doing when he outfitted the Avengers' apartments.

Clint stood under the powerful jets of his shower for a long time, just letting the hot water soak into his muscles and wash away the grime. He'd been cold for days and the heat on his skin felt amazing. When he finally started to feel almost alive again, he scrubbed his skin until it stung so that he could feel like the stench he'd carried for days was gone. He washed his hair three times and then spent another ten minutes--or more, he lost track--just standing under the water while he finished warming up.

The bathroom was wreathed in steam when Clint finally turned the shower off and stepped out. He scrubbed roughly at his hair and skin with a towel, but trying to dry off in a room where the air was almost liquid was impossible. His stomach was also rumbling from hunger, and now that he didn't have sewer stench clogging the back of his throat, the thought of pizza made his mouth water.

Clint opened the bathroom door to release the steam and wrapped a towel around his waist as he padded across the living room to the phone. His focus on ordering pizza was so complete that he didn't realise he wasn't alone until he was halfway through dialling.

A quiet sound caught his attention and he turned his head and almost dropped the phone. There was a man standing only a few feet away, staring at him.

Or at least, 'man' was the only description Clint could find that didn't make him feel like was going slightly crazy. The man had the regulation number of arms and legs, he was probably the same height as Clint, and there was nothing unusual about his face and slightly receding hairline. He was wearing the kind of dark grey suit and dark grey tie that Clint had learned to associate with federal agents. 

Except he'd never met a federal agent with large black wings rising from their shoulders.

***

Phil caught a flash of bare hip and naked flank as Barton wrapped the towel around his waist, and he blamed the distraction from that for the fact that it took him a while to notice that Barton was staring at him.

Not looking past him or staring at a point just to the left of his head. Staring straight at him as though Barton could see him.

Which was clearly impossible because mortals didn't see him. Mortals couldn't see him. It was one of the first things all agents learned during training: mortals couldn't see them, would never see them, so don't waste energy trying to make them see.

Barton could see him.

And if Barton could see him, then he'd probably noticed the way Phil's eyes kept getting drawn to the droplets of water trickling down his chest to the towel around his waist. The towel that was drooping slightly to expose hipbones and a hint of a dark hollow and...

Phil blinked and fixed his gaze firmly on Barton's face. There was an expression of shocked disbelief there, which was probably entirely justified. Most people would probably look exactly like that if an agent of SHIELD suddenly appeared in their living room. It had never happened before so Phil didn't have a speech prepared to deal with it, but he'd been doing this job for centuries and he was good with words. Everything was going to be fine.

He just needed to say something clever and then disappear before the mess could get worse.

Something clever.

Something to explain it all without leaving Barton questioning his sanity.

Something intelligent and original.

"You can see me?" Phil heard himself say.

Something a lot more intelligent than _that_. He wanted to kick himself but it was too late.

"You're a..." Barton trailed off and frowned. "What the fuck are you? Because I know what you look like, but that can't be right. You're not an ang-"

"We prefer not to use that word," Phil said quickly.

Barton's eyes narrowed. "What word? Angel?"

Phil winced. "It's a little...controversial."

"Right, so what do you call yourselves?" Barton asked.

The towel slid a fraction lower and Phil tried not to notice, even though his gaze kept getting pulled to the droplets of water that were collecting on Barton's exposed hip before sliding down under the towel.

Phil forced his eyes back to meet Barton's. "Agents."

"Agents?" Barton repeated sceptically.

"Agents." Phil shrugged and added, "Of SHIELD. Agents of SHIELD."

"Huh." Barton tilted his head curiously. "So what does that mean? What does SHIELD stand for?"

"What does it stand for?"

"It's got to stand for something," Barton said.

He shrugged casually and the damn towel slipped another quarter of an inch, which was the only reason Phil could think of for why he said, "I'd rather not say."

There were a dozen other responses he could have given that would have shut the conversation down completely, but that was the one guaranteed to get a light of mischief and curiosity in Barton's eyes. Phil cursed silently and vowed to keep his mind on the problem at hand and not the problem Barton seemed to be having with his clothing. Or lack of it.

"So it does stand for something," Barton said. "Now you have to tell me."

"No."

"I'll start using the 'A' word again if you don't tell me."

Phil sighed. "I lodged several protests against this."

"Against me knowing what SHIELD stands for?"

"Against SHIELD standing for anything," Phil said. "Against any kind of acronym at all."

"So it's not your fault that it's a really bad acronym, got it." Barton nodded. "I promise not to hold it against you."

"You really want to know?"

"I really want to know."

"Fine." Phil drew in a careful breath. "SHIELD is the shortening for the Strategic Heart Investment, Enamourment and Love Department."

There was a long moment of silence while Barton digested that. Then a wide grin slowly appeared on Barton's lips.

"So you're actually a love-"

Phil held up a hand and shook his head. "Don't say it."

For a moment Barton looked tempted but, to Phil's relief, he relented. 

"Is Enamourment even a word?" Barton asked. "And what's your name? I assume agents get names."

The whole situation was already so completely insane that Phil decided it didn't matter whether Barton knew his name or not. He was probably going to be getting called to Fury's office any minute now. There were no rules against talking to mortals because it wasn't supposed to be possible, but Phil was fairly sure he was breaking a rule of some kind somewhere. Fury would have him reassigned before he could blink so did really make any difference if Barton knew his name?

"Coulson," Phil said, feeling fatalistic and slightly depressed. "My name is Phil Coulson."

Barton smiled and held out a hand. "Clint Barton. Which you, uh, probably already knew. Huh. This is weird."

The towel slipped another fraction of an inch as Barton reached to shake Phil's hand and it was getting very difficult to ignore how much of Barton's skin was now on display. Phil wondered how long it would be before Barton finally noticed how precarious his towel was getting. He was probably too fascinated by the man with wings standing in his living room to notice, Phil decided. Barton had never shown a tendency toward exhibitionism before--not this type, anyway--so it had to be Phil who was distracting him.

Phil forced his mind back to the important part of the conversation. "Mr Barton, I-"

"It's Clint, please," he said with an air of forced calmness. "The only people who call me Mr Barton are guys who are about to interview me or torture me."

Phil hesitated for a moment before giving in. "Clint."

The smile Bart--Clint gave him was warm and bright and Phil felt his face heat. It was probably the damn towel slipping again, even though he _wasn’t looking_ with all the willpower he had.

"So, why is an...agent of SHIELD," Clint said carefully, "in my apartment?"

"Usually you can't see us," Phil said. "I've never even heard of a mortal seeing one of us."

"Was that supposed to be an answer? Because it really isn't."

"It's supposed to be an explanation."

Clint snorted. "Yeah, it isn't one of those either."

Phil sighed. "It's complicated."

"Is this going to be one of those things where you say 'it's complicated' and just disappear and I never get to find out why there was an ang-" Clint broke off, hesitated for a moment, and continued, "-man with wings standing in my apartment? Because I've got to tell you, that's going to drive me insane. Unless you can wipe my mind and make me forget I've seen you. Can you do that?"

"No." Phil frowned. "It's never been an issue we've needed to consider."

"Because mortals usually can't see you."

"Yes."

"Huh." Clint took a step closer and the towel shifted again. "I can see you."

"We've established that."

"So I deserve an explanation for what you are and why you're standing in my apartment staring at my..."

Clint trailed off and clutched at the towel, which was finally giving up all pretence of being wrapped around his waist and trying to slither away. He had to drop the phone but he managed to grab the fabric before he exposed more than a hint of the curve of his ass (Phil wasn't disappointed, no, because he _wasn't looking_ ) and a blush spread from his face, down his neck, and across his chest. He was a full-body blusher, apparently.

It was kind of adorable, something Phil wasn't going to admit to anyone ever.

"How about I put some clothes on and then you can explain exactly what the fuck you are and what you're doing here?" Clint said without meeting his eyes.

He pulled the towel tight around his waist and turned on his heel to stalk into the bedroom. Phil refused to look down, kept his eyes on the back on Clint's head, and breathed out a sigh of relief when the door slammed behind Clint. For a moment he was tempted just to fade away, go back to his office and wait for the inevitable summoning from Fury.

Except Clint had looked torn between intense curiosity and potentially freaking out and Phil somehow thought that getting his client declared insane would be even worse than calmly explaining SHIELD and its mission. After all, whoever took Clint's file next could probably still get Clint matched even if he knew what was happening.

They'd have a much more difficult job if he accidentally persuaded Clint that he was insane and needed to be checked into some kind of institution for his mental health.

So Phil sat down on the couch in Clint's living room and took some calming breaths while he tried to work out how to explain SHIELD's core mission without terrifying Clint into never trusting another romantic approach again.

***

Clint could still feel the heat in his face and neck as he pulled the towel tighter and rummaged in his closet for something to wear. He was fairly sure that Phil Coulson couldn't see through walls, but after nearly flashing a fucking _angel_ he wasn't taking any chances. There were probably rules about that, there had to be. Heavenly rules outlining the painful consequences for flashing his bits at an _angel_.

He groaned and wondered whether now was a good time to confess his sins and hope for the best. Or was Phil even that kind of angel? A SHIELD agent didn't sound like that kind of angel, so maybe this wasn't as bad as it seemed. Clint couldn't seem to stop the thoughts chasing across his mind, too fast to grasp, darting from image to idea to more images with dizzying speed.

He also couldn't seem to stop flushing every time he remembered the way Phil's eyes had drifted down as the towel attempted to escape. There had definitely been more than a hint of something there, something he would have called interest or maybe even lust in anyone else.

Except apparently the man with wings standing in his living room was some kind of _angel_ and that put an entirely different spin on the way Phil had looked at him. Could angels feel something as earthy as desire?

Did angels even have the necessary equipment for that? 

Clint had never really considered the question of whether angels were anatomically correct in any context except as a joke in films. Now he had one standing in his living room and the question suddenly seemed very important. He was fairly sure it was some kind of terrible sin to be thinking about what went on under an angel's....suit, but he couldn't seem to get his brain to leave the idea alone.

He was so totally fucked right now.

Apart from anything else, Phil Coulson didn't look like any kind of painting Clint had seen of angels. If he'd been wearing a long white robe with a shiny halo, it might have been easier to keep his thoughts purer. But no, he was wearing a suit that was cut perfectly for him and emphasised the strength of his shoulders even though he wasn't packing the kind of muscle Steve had. If there hadn't been the 'angel' tag attached, Clint would definitely have been interested. Maybe more than interested, because Clint had always had a thing for guys who could fill out a good suit well and Phil definitely qualified.

He'd also always had a thing for guys with pretty eyes and Phil Coulson had the nicest eyes Clint had seen in a long time. There were even little crow's feet at the corner that Clint was sure would crinkle just right when he smiled.

The wings were a new thing for Clint, something he'd never even thought about having a thing for. Mostly because wings weren't something he had to think about every day, even with all the weird shit he'd seen since the Avengers set up shop. His sudden urge to reach out and bury his hands in the thick black feathers, to learn whether they were as warm and soft as they looked, took him by surprise.

"Feathers? Seriously?" he muttered to himself. "Tony will laugh himself sick if he ever finds out."

Clint gave himself a firm shake and tried to pull his mind away from contemplating the beauty of Phil Coulson's eyes and wings. He obviously had more issues than he'd thought if he was having thoughts like this about a damn _angel_.

Or maybe he was using thoughts like this to distract himself from the terrifying, overwhelming idea that angels were real and that meant his entire world view had to change. When he thought about it that way, it was much easier to just think about feathers and pretty eyes and leave the philosophising to someone else.

There was a clean pair of jeans in the back of his closet and a sweater Natasha gave him for Christmas that he'd never worn before. It was only as he was scrubbing a hand through his damp hair and having the socks versus no socks debate that Clint realised he was unconsciously trying to dress up. In a sweater that Natasha said brought out his eyes.

For an angel.

"Yeah, you've lost it, Barton," he muttered. "You've freaking lost it."

He decided on no socks and hoped Phil hadn't noticed how long it had taken him to throw on some clothes.

There was something very strange about seeing a guy with wings sitting on his sofa. It took Clint a moment to realise that part of the oddness was that the wings seemed to disappear into the seat of the sofa, as though the sofa was both real and not-real to Phil. Real enough to sit on, not real enough for his wings to get squashed by, because those wings probably reached down past the middle of Phil's thighs when he was standing and now they just...ended. Abruptly, as though they'd been slashed off a foot short of the tips, and that looked so odd Clint had to look away.

He padded across the room to the tiny kitchen area in the corner and poured himself a bowl of Fruit Loops. His stomach was still crying out for pizza but until he knew whether he was the only person who could see Phil, inviting anyone to deliver anything to his apartment was probably a bad idea.

"Those are going to rot your teeth," Phil said mildly when Clint down on the other end of the sofa with his bowl of brightly coloured sugary cereal.

Clint shovelled a huge mouthful in and gave Phil a defiant grin as he chewed. Phil just shook his head with an expression that was somewhere between exasperation and...fondness?

Yeah, no, Clint was definitely imagining that.

"So, what does an angel-"

"-Agent-"

"-of SHIELD do, exactly?" Clint asked after he'd chewed and swallowed. "Aside from following a guy around all day."

"I don't-"

Clint waved his spoon. "Are you going to pretend you're not the weird shadowy thing that's been following me around for the last few weeks? I've been feeling you watching me."

Phil blinked. He seemed to hesitate for a moment and then he twisted slightly so that he was facing Clint on the sofa. Clint shifted, careful not to tip his cereal everywhere, so that he was sitting with his legs crossed and his back against the arm rest and could meet Phil's eyes properly.

"You've been seeing me?" Phil asked. "You could feel me?"

There were at least three innuendo-laden ways Clint could answer that, but all of them sounded crude and wrong when he was talking to an angel.

It was possible that Clint wasn't getting past the 'A' word any time soon.

"I've been seeing something out of the corner of my eye for a while," Clint said. "I couldn't decide whether I was imagining things or going slowly nuts. And I kept feeling someone watching me--it's kind of one of my special talents--which didn't help."

"Mortals don't see me," Phil said.

"Yeah, you keep saying that. And yet."

There was a look of such total confusion on Phil's face that Clint didn't know whether to laugh at him or hug him. He stretched out a foot to Phil's leg, intending to gently poke his thigh in a gesture of comforting solidarity that he use all the time with Natasha.

Instead his toe disappeared inside Phil's leg, which was possibly one of the most disturbing things Clint had ever seen. The burst of tingling warmth that enveloped his foot only made him more confused.

Phil looked at his foot down with a blank expression, as though he hadn't decided what the right response was supposed to be. Clint wiggled his toes and watched as Phil's eyes widened and he seemed to choke for a moment. It definitely wasn't the response he'd expected, although if Phil was also feeling the warmth that was spreading up Clint's foot and over his ankle then it was probably...

Clint quickly pulled his foot back and stuffed another huge spoonful of Fruit Loops into his mouth. Phil cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, a hint of pinkness in his ears slowly draining away as he looked up and fixed his gaze on Clint's face.

"I guess mortals can't touch you, either," Clint said after a long uncomfortable pause.

"At least that seems to be working still," Phil said.

Neither of them mentioned that not touching and not feeling weren't the same thing. It seemed like the safest option to Clint.

"So, what do you do apart from lurking like a creeper?" Clint asked.

The injured look Phil sent him made Clint grin.

"Agents of SHIELD," Phil said, with pointed emphasis on 'agents', "are assigned to find matches for mortals."

Clint frowned. "Matches...how? You have little voodoo dolls of us that you pair up and say 'now kiss' and we pair up and kiss?"

"Not...ah, not quite," Phil said and there was a hint of barely suppressed laughter in his voice. "Although sometimes it would be easier if we could do that."

"So, if that's not what you're doing then what does 'matching' us mean?"

"Matching means finding you a permanent match," Phil said, his tone slow and careful. "Finding a person you'll be with for the rest of your life and nudging you to them."

"There's really a person out there--one person--that I could be in love with for the rest of my life?" Clint asked sceptically. "That sounds pretty...Harlequin romance and all that shit."

"Not one person, no," Phil said. "There are potentially many people you could match to. It's SHIELD's job to find one of them and nudge you together so you can form a match."

"And how do you know when a match has worked?"

"You've got--all mortals have--an aura," Phil explained. "Agents can see it and we're trained to read the variations, all the possibilities that you possess. When mortals match, their aura changes. That's how we know it's worked. A matched aura is the most beautiful thing you'll ever see. It looks like silver and starlight, glowing so bright it's hard to believe mortals can't see it."

Clint studied Phil, taking in the hint of a smile that softened his face and made him look almost happy. For a moment he was achingly envious that he couldn't see something that was obviously so amazing Phil seemed to struggle to find the words for it.

"How does my aura look?" He didn't really want to know, but he couldn't stop himself asking. "Is my aura doing OK? Because I've got to tell you, I've got shitty ass luck when it comes to the romance stuff."

"Your aura is..." Phil trailed off and frowned for a moment, which made Clint unaccountably nervous even though he'd sworn he was through with the whole dating scene. "Your aura is faint, but it's there and you still look matchable. Your unfortunate record is the reason I was assigned to you."

"I got my own personal angel because I have such shittastic luck in love?"

"No, your file has always been assigned to someone," Phil said and this time the laughter in his voice wasn't as completely hidden. "You were assigned to me because I'm the best and my director thinks you need me. Although after today, he's probably already putting in the transfer to add you to someone else's caseload."

"You're the best?" Clint asked.

He eyed Phil in his perfect grey suit and carefully shined shoes. There were a dozen different things he could imagine Phil being the best at, but somehow it seemed hard to buy that Phil was the best there was at finding lovers for people. Particularly people like Clint.

"I'm the best," Phil said firmly. "My record is perfect."

"What does 'perfect' mean when you're a lov-uh, agent of SHIELD?" Clint asked.

"It means that I've never failed to match a client," Phil said. "Until today, at least."

"You're that good."

"I'm that good."

"And I'm that much of a mess?"

There was a brief hesitation before Phil shook his head. "You're not a mess. You've just...had some back luck."

He muttered something else, something that sounded like "and jumped off a lot of buildings", but Clint pretended not to hear.

"So what happens after today?" he asked instead.

"I don't know," Phil said. "I've never heard of this happening to an agent before. There will probably be an investigation and I'll be restricted to the Hub until someone works out what's going on."

"And I'll get a new angel? Someone who isn't the best?"

Clint thought he already knew the answer, particularly when Phil didn't complain about the 'A' word, but he had to hear it anyway. He'd barely known Phil for more than a couple of hours and he was already feeling strangely protective of 'his' angel, even though he thought the whole idea was insane and he had no intentions of ending up back on the dating market again.

"You'll get a new agent," Phil confirmed.

"Will it matter if I say that I don't want one?"

"No," Phil said. "As long as you're matchable, we'll keep sending agents after you. Although if you keep insisting that you've sworn off love, you probably won't stay matchable for long."

"What happens then?"

There was a sad look on Phil's face, a deep sadness that Clint regretted being the cause of though he didn't know why he felt so strongly.

"Your file gets sent to the Vault," Phil said, "and you'll never find a permanent match."

"Would I still get to have sex?"

Phil rolled his eyes. "You'd be unmatchable, not a eunuch."

"Then I don't see what's so bad about being sent to the Vault," Clint said, shrugging. "Doesn't sound like it would change anything. I've never had a relationship last more than a year or so anyway."

"Just...trust me, you don't want that."

"Does it really make that much of a difference?" Clint asked. "Is the whole matching thing really that amazing?"

"Have you watched your friend Tony Stark lately?" A smile made those lines at the corners of Phil's eyes crinkle exactly the way Clint had imagined. "He'd probably be the first person to tell you that it really is that amazing."

"Tony and Pepper? They've done it?"

Phil nodded.

"Shit." Clint frowned. "Have you done it?"

For one brief moment there was a look of incredible pain in Phil's eyes, so strong it made Clint's breath catch in sympathy. Then Phil blinked and all the emotion disappeared into a blank mask.

"Agents don't match," Phil said, his voice sounding toneless and bland, as though he'd repeated that phrase a hundred times.

"Oh."

Clint didn't know why that thought made something ache in his chest but it did.

"I should leave," Phil said. "I shouldn't have stayed this long."

"You've got to go and get your ass chewed because I can see you?"

"Something like that."

There wasn't anything Clint could think of to say, nothing that would actually make sense anyway. He simply watched as Phil stood up, the tips of his wings emerging from the sofa in a way that was both creepy and weirdly amusing, and straightened his jacket. A part of Clint's brain was trying to work out how the fuck Phil managed to wear a jacket and have wings, but the thought made his head ache so he pushed it aside.

"Good luck, Mr Barton," Phil said formally. "If I have any influence over it, I'll try to make sure your next agent is one of the best."

Clint shrugged. "Sure. Sounds great. Good luck with the ass-chewing."

A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Phil's mouth and he slowly faded away.

For a while Clint sat on the sofa, stirring the last of his Fruit Loops into a sticky mush, lost in thought. Then he put the bowl in the sink and stripped out of his clothes before falling into bed for a long, dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

There was no summons from Fury waiting in his office when Phil returned to the Hub. There was, however, a Darcy sitting in his visitor's chair. She looked completely miserable, slumped in the chair with her wings hanging down over the low back so that the tips flattened against the floor.

Phil decided now was probably not the best time to remind Darcy of how much damage that treatment would do to her feathers.

He eyed her carefully as he stepped into his office, closed the door and sat down behind his desk. Her feathers were a dull green and even her knitted hat was a sad shade of grey instead of her usual cheerful colours.

"What happened?" he asked carefully as he set Barton's file down on the desk.

Darcy sighed. "They're going to take my wings away."

"What did you do?"

"Why do you immediately assume I did something?" Darcy asked, her indignant tone sounding flat and false.

"Because people don't usually worry about having their wings taken away if they haven't done something," Phil said calmly. "Now, what did you do?"

Darcy wrinkled her noise unhappily. "I kind of...maybe...might have...created a Romeo and Juliet."

The last words were said so quietly, Phil had to strain to hear them. It didn't help that Darcy ducked her head and almost seemed to be trying to hide in her poncho.

Her sense of style definitely stood out among the business suits and occasional flowing pink robes most agents wore.

"You accidentally made a Romeo and Juliet?" Phil asked slowly, just to make sure he'd heard correctly. "Accidentally?"

Darcy shrugged. "Kind of?"

"How do you accidentally match a Romeo and Juliet scenario? Those usually take a lot of work." Phil frowned. "Just getting them talking is usually half the battle."

"Uh..." Darcy winced again. "They didn't seem to have that much trouble talking? Seriously, getting them talking wasn't the hard part. Actually, no, getting them talking was difficult, but not in that way. They seem to want to spend more time sucking face than talking right now."

"And you're sure they're matched?"

"Bright silver light, practically seeing hearts in their eyes and little birds twittering around their heads when they're together, can't keep their eyes off each other, did I mentioned the fireworks and light show? Yeah, I'm pretty sure they're matched."

Phil quietly considered just putting his head down on his desk, pulling his wings up and over, and pretending he hadn't seen or heard any of this. Except he was her mentor and that was supposed to include providing guidance in times of trouble, not hiding under his wings until all the bad things went away.

Even if he was suddenly visible to a mortal and his protégé had somehow created a Romeo and Juliet. It was hard to tell which problem was more depressing right now.

"Maybe you could explain it all from the beginning," Phil said instead with all the calmness he could muster.

He couldn't produce much calmness, not when he was already having a quiet panic attack about his own situation, but it seemed to be enough for Darcy. She straightened up and flicked her long hair back behind her shoulders. Her wings finally lifted enough for the tips to stop being crushed against the floor and Phil carefully pretended he couldn't see the feathers that now looked bent and broken down there. Darcy would find them when she finally emerged from the pit of despair she'd been hiding in.

"OK, so there's this guy," she started. "He's on the football team at a high school. And there's a rival school with a rival team and the captain of that team has a twin sister."

Phil could already see where this was going and he suppressed a wince.

"Jason--he's the first guy--was going out with one of the cheerleaders but they broke up. And Angeline--the twin sister--was at the big game between the two schools." At this point, Darcy looked a little guilty. "I might have maybe put a little nudge in. Just a tiny one. I didn't think it would do anything. I was actually figuring Jason would get back with his old girlfriend, so this was kind of a...test?" Darcy pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I really didn't think they'd do that whole 'eyes meeting across a football field, fall in love' thing. I mean, the guy was wearing a helmet! And Angeline was supposed to be watching her brother, and she was wearing one of those crazy hats!"

"But their eyes met," Phil promoted.

Darcy shifted uncomfortable. "Well, yeah. Eyes meeting, all that crap. And I figured it was going to be fine anyway except I didn't see the note in Jason's file about his cousin going to the other school and he asked his cousin about this girl he'd seen and it...kind of...snowballed."

"How, exactly, does something like that snowball?"

"Social media is the worst," Darcy said with a hint of a whine in her voice. "I couldn't keep up with it all! They were sneaky and devious and they kept meeting for coffee in these out of town places and then meeting for kissing in really well-hidden places. I'm not kidding, they were like the ninjas of secret make-outs."

"Did you help them at all?" Phil said.

"Uh." Darcy looked guilty. "Maybe? I might have, uh, nudged them to a few places where they're be hard to find?"

"Darcy-"

"How was I supposed to know they'd match?" Darcy said. "They're freaking fucking kids!"

"Yes, they're probably doing that as well," Phil said blandly.

"You...that's not helping!" Darcy made an unhappy sound. "They probably are, aren't they? That's why they did the light show this morning, they fucked last night and...shit. Yeah, they did." She pulled a tablet out of a pocket--a tablet that shouldn't have been able to fit into that pocket--and began tapping the screen and groaning again. "Fuck, yes, last night. Motel. I was busy with another file, a couple of high school juniors in a different state who are definitely _not_ match potential, thank god. I caught up with Jason and Angeline just as the light show happened, they must have been driving back to school or something."

"You're sure it's a Romeo and Juliet?" Phil asked. "It doesn't happen often, but this could just be an unusually early match that won't--"

"Angeline's brother found out about it this afternoon," Darcy said quickly. "He's threatening murder. Jason and Angeline are vowing to die together rather than split up. It's totally a Romeo and Juliet."

Phil folded his hands on his desk and looked at Darcy steadily. "You know what you're going to have to do, don't you? We can't break a match after it's happened. You'll have to report it to your supervisor in Teen Love and it will be passed onto a more experienced agent."

Darcy took a deep, careful sigh. "I know."

"They'll probably rotate you into a different department," Phil continued. "Something with a little less...hormones."

"You think?" Darcy asked hopefully. "They won't just take my wings away and send me off to the other place?"

"Not for one Romeo and Juliet," Phil said, trying to sound reassuring. "If you make a pattern of it, they might. But for one? I doubt it. You were due to rotate to a new section soon anyway, weren't you?"

"I guess," Darcy said. "I kind of lost track. The Teen section was a lot more fun that I thought it would be."

"Teenagers are fun?" Phil asked.

"Sure they're fun. All those rampaging hormones and crazy declarations of love," Darcy said with a wide grin. "Seriously, Coulson, you should try it someday. They get pretty dramatic some days and that pretty much sucks, but then they do the big, epic declarations in front of the whole school like something out of the movies and it's awesome."

"I think I'll pass."

"And stick to your quiet miracles?"

Coulson carefully didn't think about Barton and his loud, colourful life, filled with dragons and towels that kept trying to fall off.

"My miracles are quiet but they suit me," he said. "Now, we should probably talk to your supervisor before she finds out on her own."

***

For two weeks, Clint didn't feel anything watching him and he told himself firmly that he didn't miss it. Not at all. No way.

Nope.

Having a shadowy presence at the corner of his eye was disturbing and wrong on so many levels. Even if the shadowy presence had turned out to be a man with beautiful wings and pretty eyes, it was still creepy and voyeuristic and he didn't miss Phil at all.

Except then he shuffled out of his bedroom one morning and there was an angel sitting at his dining table, and Clint was so relieved he almost tripped over his own feet. Phil had files spread out on the table in front of him and he was glaring down at one of them with such a grumpy, irritated expression, it made Clint smile. Who knew angels got annoyed with paperwork just like regular people?

"I thought you'd been reassigned," Clint said.

Phil looked up and blinked. "You can still see me?"

"Either that or I'm hallucinating. It's way less disturbing if we go with the other thing. When did 'angels are real' become the better option in my life?"

"Oh."

Phil looked tired and disappointed and Clint was surprised to find he felt bad about that. It wasn't his fault he could see Phil, but he still felt strangely guilty for putting Phil in a difficult position.

"What happened to you?" Clint asked. "Thought you were getting reassigned."

"So did I," Phil said. "It looks like no one's noticed yet."

Clint padded across to the fridge and pulled out a carton of juice. "Lucky break, I guess."

"Or they've been too busy with other things to pay attention to us," Phil said. "We've had a few messes to fix."

"Is that where you've been? Fixing messes?"

"Mostly."

For a moment, Phil's wings seemed to puff up slightly before he twitched and they settled again. Clint pretended not to notice and moved closer to the table to look at the files. All of them were written in a script that made his eyes itch and water when he tried to concentrate on it. The only thing he could make out was the picture of a pretty blonde woman at the top of one page: she waved and smiled out of the picture like a little glossy film reel.

"Who is that?" Clint asked.

Phil looked down at the page with a surprised expression, as though he'd completely forgotten it was there. "One of the messes."

"What kind of messes can an ang-...agent make?" Clint asked, correcting himself quickly at Phil's frown.

Apparently Phil was still slightly sensitive about the 'A' word.

"The worst kind," Phil said.

"I thought everyone wanted their happily ever after?" Clint said. "Isn't that what matching is about?"

"Yes and no," Phil said. "It's about guiding the matches, making sure they happen at the right time and place for everyone involved."

"And if they don't?" Clint pointed to the file. "What happened to her?"

"She was supplying the flowers for a wedding," Phil said with a pained expression. "The bride and groom hadn't matched yet, but the agent working on them swears blind that their auras were starting to look a little paler around the edges."

"The agent made a mistake?"

"He took his eye off the ball. The bride fell in love with the florist and they'd matched before anyone could do anything about it."

"Isn't there a movie about that somewhere?"

"Probably. It's never as tidy as it looks in the movies, though."

Clint took a slug of juice and grinned. "You don't like romantic comedies, I guess."

"No. They're much too neat. Life is never really like that."

"And you're the guy who gets called in when the romcom goes sour."

Phil shrugged. "Sometimes, yes."

"You must be good at this shit."

"I have a certain reputation."

"I guess that I'm messing up your reputation," Clint said thoughtfully.

There was another small shrug and Phil's wings twitched for a moment as though he was fighting down the urge to ruffle them irritably. "You're a challenge, but I'm told challenges are good for me. At least that's what my boss keeps telling me."

Clint leaned closer so he could peer at the files through watering eyes. He barely noticed the brief touch of something warm and feathery against his stomach through his t-shirt and the sensation was gone almost immediately.

"Do I have one of those?" he asked, gesturing to the table.

"You do," Phil said with a measured, careful tone.

"Can I see it?"

Phil snorted. "Definitely not."

"Why? It's not like I can read it, that writing is making my eyes hurt just looking at it."

"What do you mean?"

"It kind of...moves around the page like it's trying to escape."

"Interesting." Phil looked thoughtfully down at the papers spread out on the table and then he reached out and seemed to pluck something out of thin air. A massively thick file landed on the table with an audible thud. "Your file."

Clint blinked. He was fairly sure even his medical notes weren't that thick and he'd spent a depressing amount of time getting patched up in most of the hospitals in New York over the years. The file had neat little coloured tabs dividing it into sections and he could see the edges of what looked like post-it notes poking out in places as well. Instinctively, Clint reached out to test its weight and his hand went straight through it, leaving a faint tingling sensation in his fingers.

"Why does my file look like that?" Clint asked.

"Some files just do," Phil said.

"Uh huh."

After a beat, Phil said, "Yours is a little larger than average."

"There are encyclopaedias that are shorter than my file. Is my love life that much of a disaster?"

Clint didn't really need an answer to that because he'd lived through it and he remembered every break-up and bad choice in painful detail, but he was staring at the evidence in a thick, beige folder and it seemed like the only thing he could ask.

"You've been through a lot of the departments in SHIELD," Phil said, again in that careful, measured tone. "You have some unique circumstances that have made you difficult to match."

"Like the part where I'm a fuck up?"

"More the part where you jump off buildings a lot," Phil said and then winced. "I mean-"

"No, you're right, I do that," Clint said. "It kind of comes with the whole superhero gig."

"It's difficult for people to watch. And even when you've dated other people in the industry, I've noticed that there tend to be conflicts of interest that lead to a relationship breakdown."

"It takes that many pages for people to note that I'm shit at relationships due to my job?"

A smile tugged at the corner of Phil's mouth, barely a twitch of his lips, but somehow it made Clint feel better even though he was still staring at the evidence that he'd never had a relationship last beyond the one year anniversary.

"Most of the paperwork is generated when the file is transferred," Phil said. "You wouldn't believe how many forms there are and they all have to be completed in triplicate. And the after-action reports are a nightmare sometimes."

Clint nodded to the files still strewn on his dining table. "Is that what you're doing? Filling in reports in triplicate?"

"Unfortunately."

"Don't you have an office?"

A sheepish expression appeared on Phil's face, a sight that did something odd to Clint's belly that he almost thought he should recognise.

"I have an office," Phil said. "This is...quieter. Nobody looks for me here."

"You're hiding?"

The faintly guilty look in Phil's eyes said enough and Clint laughed.

"I get it," he said, crossing back to the fridge and opening it to look for something to eat. "You go right ahead, get your shit done in peace. I won't get in your way. Hey, are you hungry?"

Clint turned around to find Phil holding up a doughnut he'd been sure Phil hadn't been holding a moment ago. A steaming cup of coffee was also sitting on his file. He raised an eyebrow and Phil shrugged.

***

Phil wasn't quite sure why it happened, but somehow he found himself packing up his stack of work each morning after that and transporting to Clint's apartment. He told himself that it was pure luck that he always arrived a few minutes before Clint shuffled out of his bedroom looking tousled and sleepy. The smile that always appeared on Clint's face when he noticed Phil sitting at the table was also, obviously, a completely unanticipated effect.

Clearly.

Definitely.

Any suspicions that Phil timed his arrival carefully were completely unfounded.

It was just that Clint's apartment was a good place to get some paperwork done and the oversight committee had decided SHIELD needed auditing for the first time in twenty years, so he had a lot of files to review. Everyone had a lot of files to review and everyone needed Phil's advice on their files, apparently, which tended to leave him with no time for his own work unless he made himself difficult to find.

So he had a perfectly good excuse--*reason*--for spending a lot of time sitting at Clint's table or on a chair in the corner of Clint's range.

Not that Clint was always a peaceful companion: some days he barely spoke, but on other days he asked more questions than Darcy at her worst and Phil somehow couldn't stop himself answering. He even told Clint the truth a lot of the time instead of using carefully worded non-answers. Fury would probably have Phil's wings shorn off if he ever found out how much Phil had told a mortal about SHIELD, but as the days went by, it became more and more obvious that nobody had noticed what was going.

Maybe audits and disastrous matches were good for something after all.

"You have an entire department for teenagers?" Clint asked as he took a break from testing Stark's latest improvements to the new quiver. "Why? None of them ever seem to have that much trouble getting into trouble."

Phil snorted and made a note on one of Darcy's reports. "That's exactly why we have a department for them. Someone has to keep an eye on them and try to guide them into relationships that won't be completely self-destructive. Most of the work there is about trying not to let them imprint on anyone too closely and letting them work out their hormones without hurting anyone."

Clint took a long pull off his water bottle and sighed appreciatively. "Yeah, OK, I can see why that would be important. I didn't exactly have a normal life when I was that age, but I remember making some pretty stupid decisions back then." He paused and looking thoughtful for a moment. "What's in my file from that department, anyway? Or is that like juvie records, sealed up nice and tight so nobody gets handed off to the adults with a bad record?"

The memory of the single page sitting in the front of Clint's file swam in front of Phil's eyes and he schooled his face into a bland expression. "Your teenaged records aren't sealed. They're...brief."

"Brief," Clint repeated. "How brief? Because I remember being a teenager and I had shit luck at getting laid. Moving around all the time didn't exactly help, but I only managed to score a couple of...wait, OK, that sounds...it's not that I didn't...I... Clint took a deep breath. "It was like I was invisible."

There was a bright flush of colour in his face as he trailed away and Phil realised with a start that Clint was embarrassed about his lack of teenaged sexual experiences. It was unexpectedly charming.

Phil tried very hard not to find it charming, endearing, or any other emotion that might indicate Clint was getting through his carefully constructed defences.

"Your file--" Phil said and paused before starting again. "Your file apparently fell through a few cracks when you were a teenager. It appears to have been lost for a couple of years and then assigned to an agent with too many cases on her desk when it was relocated. There's a report from an agent who handled you briefly when you were seventeen, but then she got transferred to another department and your file seems to have sat on various agents' desks until you graduated to the adult services."

"That explains a lot," Clint said, the blush not fading. "There was a girl when I was seventeen. For about a week. I really didn't get why everyone thought sex was so great. I thought there was something wrong with me. Or that I was way further along the Kinsey scale than I'd figured."

The temptation to wince was strong but Phil fought it down. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Clint said with a brave attempt at looking casual and unaffected despite the blush that was only slowly fading. "You didn't personally lose my file or forget to do anything with it. That's all on other...uh...agents. And hey, at least I don't have any embarrassing stories about STIs and angry fathers with shotguns."

"We still shouldn't have dropped the ball on you."

"It all worked out eventually. I even got the sex thing figured out after a few misses."

Phil quietly resolved to check who had handled Clint's file after he transferred out of Teen Love and maybe send them a fruit basket or something. They'd clearly nudged him in the right direction even if the relationships hadn't ended in matches.

"It's not like sex is that great the first time for anyone," Clint continued. "I probably would have worked that out faster if I hadn't had a really long dry spell, but I got there eventually. Do you remember your first couple of times? It probably wasn't that great, was it?"

Phil felt his face heat and it took a real effort to meet Clint's gaze steadily. Words seemed to get stuck in his throat, and after a long moment Clint's eyes widened with shock and something that looked almost like guilt.

"Shit, Phil, are angels celibate? Do angels have the right equipment for that?" He paused for a beat and the blush returned even brighter than before. "Am I being the most insensitive asshole who ever lived right now?"

"You're getting close," Phil said, "but I've heard worse."

Clint groaned and pulled an unhappy face. "Sorry. Feel free to forget I just asked about...any of that. All of it. Pretend I stopped talking about five minutes ago, OK? I'll just be over here. Shooting at stuff."

He was as good as his word, dropping his water bottle on a stack of towels and picking up his bow without looking in Phil's direction. There was more tension in his shoulders than Phil was used to seeing when he stepped up to the shooting line (Phil had no idea when he'd become so familiar with the way Clint's shoulders looked) and his first arrow barely clipped the edge of the boss. Clint swore under his breath and nocked another arrow with jerky, uncomfortable movements.

"We weren't always celibate," Phil said, his voice echoing around the range much louder than he'd expected.

Clint hesitated before slowly lowering his bow. He didn't turn around and Phil felt relieved that he didn't have to see Clint's face. It was much easier talking to the back of his head.

"You weren't?" Clint asked. "Is that angels in general, your kind of angels or..."

"SHIELD agents," Phil said. "We were human once. Some of us were human not long ago. Doing what we do isn't possible unless we understand what being mortal is like."

"How long has it been for you?"

"Since I was human?" Phil asked, trying to do the calculations in his head. "A long time."

"Are we talking years long? Decades?"

"Centuries."

The silence on Clint's side of the range lasted a long time as he digested that.

"I'm guessing we're not talking about one or two centuries then," Clint said eventually.

"Probably not."

"Probably?"

"It's all gets hazy when I try to think back more than seven or eight. I don't really remember much about it anymore." All Phil could remember if he really pushed was a sense of dull loneliness. There was probably a file somewhere, down in the deepest and oldest archives, but he'd never wanted to look for it. Darcy grimaced if anyone tried to remind her that she'd had a life with the mortals once and Phil guessed that she'd also been alone down here. Pushing himself to remember more held no appeal. "Any first times I had are lost in the past."

"Huh." Clint started to raise his bow again, the arrow held carefully on the string, but he stopped with the bow halfway up and his voice was unusually quiet when he spoke. "That's kind of sad, you know? My firsts weren't that great, but I wouldn't want to lose all the times that were pretty amazing."

"I've got more than enough work dealing with everyone else's good times," Phil said firmly, trying to break the slightly melancholy mood that had descended in the range.

"You're happy living vicariously, got it," Clint said with an equally forced level of good cheer. "Guess I'm a real disappointment, huh?"

"Your continuing refusal to consider dating is making my job much more difficult than it needs to be."

Clint raised his bow and the muscles across his shoulders rippled as he drew and loosed an arrow in one smooth movement. It thudded in the centre of the target perfectly.

Phil sighed and bent over his files to begin annotating them in red ink while Clint chuckled and continued shooting.

***

"Nat, do you believe in angels?"

"The kind with halos and fluffy white feathers," Natasha asked, "or the kind with claws, black feathers and glowing eyes that shoot fire at us? Because I definitely believe in the second kind, we fought some a few months ago. I'm not sure about the other type."

Clint nocked an arrow and stood to shoot over the roof of the mangled car they were sheltering behind. His arrow hit its target and exploded with a satisfying bang. There was a loud screech of pain and Clint ducked down as white hot flames shot through the air where his head had been. His shoulder brushed the metal of the car and he flinched back and swore as the superheated metal burned another pink patch onto his skin.

"I think you just made it angry," Natasha said.

"It was already pretty angry," Clint said. "I just distracted it so Cap didn't get turned into a crispy critter."

"And if it decides to come over here?"

"So far, they don't seem to jump well and we've got that twenty foot chasm between us and the fire-breathing angry red thing. Why do we keep drawing the fire-breathing ones? Why is it never Reed Richards and his crew getting incinerated?"

Natasha shrugged. "I think it's a phase. In a couple of months we'll probably get all the giant poisonous squid."

"Do they have an ETA on a fire extinguisher?"

Natasha touched her earpiece for a moment and shook her head. "Banner's still working on it."

"I hate the fire-breathing ones."

Clint reached back to check his quiver and counted the arrows twice before admitting to himself that this was definitely not looking good. He had ten of Tony's special arrow shafts left and two of his own acid arrows, but so far they'd been even more useless than the exploding variety. Nothing in his arsenal was actually doing anything except making the monsters angrier.

"Why did you ask about angels?" Natasha asked.

Her red hair was almost completely grey with dust and ash and there were dark smudges of soot on her cheeks. Her suit was torn in places and raw pink skin showed through, evidence of the earlier attempts to contain their opponent that had failed so disastrously. Any containment plan that resulted in two people trapped on a small spit of rock in the middle of an enormous gaping chasm in Brooklyn had to be classed as a failure, although Tony insisted that the part where they'd killed one of the three fire-breathing red creatures when it fell into the chasm was a good positive outcome.

As Clint had nearly fallen into the chasm with it and had been saved when Natasha grabbed his belt, making his suit compress a...very sensitive area (to put it delicately), he wasn't counting that as a good thing. The press would have a field day with the destruction from this.

"Angels?" Clint said carefully. "No reason."

"You always have a reason. Are you trying to have a sudden religious epiphany?"

"What? No, of course not. No. Just...thinking."

"About angels." Natasha tilted her head thoughtfully. "I don't believe in them but I'm prepared to be proved wrong. We've seen a lot of weird things so I can't be certain about anything being impossible anymore. Those things out there look a lot like demons but Banner says they aren't. Maybe there are pretty babies with wings floating around on fluffy white clouds as well. Maybe there aren't. I believe in what I can see and touch and I leave everything else to the theologians."

"That's very, ah, practical."

"You wanted to say Russian, didn't you?"

"Do I look like I'm crazy?"

Natasha patted his knee comfortingly. "Sometimes, but not today. Are you sure you're OK? Philosophy isn't normally something we discuss."

"I'm fine," Clint said firmly.

"Fine," Natasha echoed. "We haven't seen you much lately. When was the last time you came to the team breakfast?"

The worried look in Natasha's eyes made Clint feel guilty. He couldn't tell her that he'd been deliberately hiding away in his apartment and the range for the last few weeks so he could spend the morning watching an angel--who she didn't believe in--do his paperwork. Even in their kind of world, that sounded strange.

He smiled and patted her hand. "I'll be at the next one, promise. I've just been kind of distracted lately."

"By what?" Natasha tensed and touched her comm. "Hold on, Banner's got a fire extinguisher. Stark wants us to create a diversion while they get in place."

Clint glanced around, taking in their surroundings and calculating distances and angles by instinct. "If I shoot a grapple over there, we could swing out of here and over the chasm to get somewhere more useful."

Natasha eyed the wall he was pointing at and Clint could see her mind doing the same calculations he'd done. The fierce, eager smile that she shot him sent a spark of excitement coursing through his body, that familiar thrill of doing something ridiculous and dangerous that might pay off if they didn't get killed in the attempt.

"Think you can do it before we get fried?" Natasha asked.

"There's only one way to find out."

"Then do your Spider-Man impression and get us back in the action."


	4. Chapter 4

Phil reviewed the footage of Clint's battle with three very large fire-breathing creatures in his office and tried to resist the urge to bash his head on the desk a few times. Not only had Clint nearly been incinerated multiple times, he'd then attached his grappling line to a building that was barely standing up and actually looked surprised when it began crumbling the moment he and Natasha tried to swing out across a wide chasm.

When he got to the part where Clint was clinging to the edge of the chasm by his fingertips with Natasha hanging off his belt, Phil gave up all pretence at dignity and thunked his head on the desk a carefully measured five times.

Then he added two more thunks just for good measure.

His skull was aching and he felt slightly light-headed when he looked up just in time to watch Stark flying through a wall of flames with Clint and Natasha wrapped around his legs. Phil blinked twice and began swearing viciously.

Falling off roofs was bad enough.

Being on fire was definitely worse.

No wonder Clint Barton couldn't find anyone willing to cope with his lifestyle. His lifestyle looked ridiculously dangerous even by superhero standards.

Phil quietly resolved to make sure that he was present for every single Avengers call Clint attended from now on. He might not be able to do anything, but at least he wouldn't be reviewing footage hours later with his heart in his mouth and a ridiculous urge to visit Clint in his hospital room. Surely being onsite would help with the gnawing fear in his stomach each time he replayed the wall of flame moment.

He managed to resist visiting until the early hours of the morning when he knew Clint would be asleep. Then he threw dignity to the wind and spent an hour quietly watching Clint from the corner of a darkened hospital room. The burns weren't as bad as they'd looked on the video but Clint's arms were heavily bandaged anyway and a large, Hulk-sized handprint was showing as a bruise across his bare chest. That was probably from the moment when Clint lost his grip on Stark's armour and the Hulk had been forced to catch him before he could fall into the smouldering remains of the demon-like creatures they been fighting.

When he got back to his office, Phil added three new pages of irritated notes to Clint's folder and sent out requests for files from half a dozen different teams.

It was definitely time to start nudging Clint into a match. Before he started to lose feathers from stress.

***

Clint was released from hospital the following afternoon and, to Phil's intense irritation, he seemed to spend the next few days deliberately avoiding any of Phil's attempts to speak to him privately. That was probably an unreasonable assessment because most of the team breakfasts, lunches, and dinners were being set up by members of the Avengers. Phil had given up on pretending to be reasonable around Clint Barton weeks ago.

The afternoons that Clint spent in Stark's workshop building a new bow, quiver and arrows were probably necessary as well. Phil had seen the charred remains of Clint's old kit, after all, and Stark seemed set on yet another series of improvements. Mostly the kind of improvements that would make Clint's archery kit flame retardant and even more likely to get him into a hundred different kinds of trouble.

Phil would have been happier if Stark had spent some time improving Clint's uniform. Perhaps incorporating sleeves and some kind of hood and mask so there was less flesh to burn the next time he fought fire-breathing monsters. The odds of that happening, though, were probably around the same as the odds of Clint not jumping off the next roof he found himself standing on.

Not that Phil was bitter about that. Much.

It was obvious from the occasional quick glances Clint sent his way that he was aware of Phil each time he lurked quietly in a corner, but Clint didn't say anything or even smile at him. Phil told himself that it was for the best. Accidentally getting his client a reputation for talking to people who weren't there probably wasn't going to help either of them.

A week after Clint came home, Phil finally found him alone in his own apartment. Phil definitely didn't do a little mental celebration dance because that would be unprofessional and also slightly creepy. He might have taken a minute to watch Clint, sprawled on his sofa in ratty sleeping pants and a t-shirt with a book in his hand, but that was purely to check that Clint was healing well.

No, Phil didn't believe himself either but it was good to pretend.

He waited a couple of minutes before clearing his throat. Clint tipped his head back on the sofa arm to look at Phil upside down.

"Hey," he said lazily. "Wondered when you'd talk to me again."

"You've been busy," Phil said.

"Yeah, Nat said everyone was worried because I wasn't being a joiner anymore. Couldn't exactly tell them that I had an...uh, you to keep me company, so I figured it was a good idea to spend some time with the team. It's not like I'm the only busy one--you haven't been around when I managed to escape the team."

"You were usually escaping from them to sleep or shower. It didn't seem appropriate to visit you then."

Clint's expression was difficult to read when his face was upside down but Phil thought he smirked.

"Didn't stop you before," Clint said cheerfully.

Phil winced. "That wasn't intentional. Most people don't shower in the middle of the afternoon."

"Most people don't need to shower due to sewer stink."

"I'd imagine that happens to you a lot. The sewer stink, I mean."

"Not as much as you'd think. And I always shower after. Guess that's a point in my favour on the matching thing?"

"One point," Phil conceded. "But you lost a few when you nearly got incinerated after falling down a very large hole."

Clint rolled over and sat up. Somehow his hair looked both flattened and wildly messy all at once, and his pants had been twisted and pulled so the waistband was riding low and exposing a tantalising glimpse of naked hip. Not that Phil was looking, obviously.

"Firstly, I didn't fall down the hole," Clint said, holding up a finger. "I'm pretty sure it only counts as falling _in_ if you don't grab the edge and hold on. And second, how the fuck did you know about all that? You weren't even there."

"How did you know I wasn't there?" Phil asked.

Clint suddenly seemed intensely interested in making sure he folded over the corner of the page he was reading very carefully and neatly. "I didn't see you."

"You were looking for me?"

"Maybe?"

"Oh." Phil didn't know why he added the next part. Possibly he was starting to manifest a bizarre form of Stockholm Syndrome. "I'll make sure I'm at your next callout."

"You don't have to," Clint said, sounding hopeful.

Phil shrugged. "How can I work on matching you if I don't keep an eye on you when you're doing insanely reckless things?"

"Matching. Yeah. That's the important thing." Clint cleared his throat. "So, about that. Haven't noticed any baristas falling over themselves to pass me their numbers lately. Are you sure you haven't given up on me yet?"

"Never," Phil said. "We're just getting started."

He plucked the stack of ten folders he'd requested out of the air and tried not to roll his eyes when Clint groaned dramatically and flopped back onto the couch.

"I thought we could review these together," Phil said. "Maybe something will strike you."

"I can't read them, remember?"

"I'll read out the important parts."

"This is exactly what I wanted for my life. An ang-...agent reading me dating profiles for a bedtime story."

Phil smiled. "Are you sitting comfortably?"

Clint flipped him off and Phil's smile widened ever so slightly.

***

If discussing potential dating and-slash-or matching candidates with an angel was odd, deliberately going to a coffee shop in hopes of 'accidentally' meeting one of them felt even stranger. Clint had done a lot of weird shit in his life but the last few days had passed weird and gone straight to surreal.

The part where he'd been hoping Phil would just hang out with him and read out files forever instead of making him go and meet the people was even more confusing. Clint figured it was probably time to admit to himself that he had a small crush.

Maybe not such a small crush, actually.

But it was a pointless and pathetic crush because he couldn't even touch Phil and hadn't tried since the whole foot-through-the-thigh incident. Never mind how good the warm tingly feeling had been, there were limits to what Clint was willing to do for love and falling for a guy he'd only ever be able to look at longingly was a long way past those limits. He'd done the long distance thing a few times so he knew exactly how much it sucked to be in a relationship where ninety per cent of his orgasms were courtesy of his right hand rather than his lover actually touching him.

A relationship where his lover could _never_ touch him definitely wasn't on the cards. At least long distance had the prospect of non-solo sex at some point in the future.

So he was doing his best to put the small and pathetic crush on his angel aside, and actually help his angel out. It went against everything he'd told himself for the last eighteen months, but he had an expert on the job now. An expert who needed him to cooperate or he'd never leave, and Clint would be even more screwed--wrong choice of words, maybe--than he already was.

The first candidate on the shortlist they'd drawn up spent every Saturday morning in a particular coffee shop, reading newspapers and working her way through two cups of coffee and at least one large slice of chocolate cake. She was smart, pretty, and athletic, which weren't really deal breaker qualities for Clint but he preferred someone who could keep up with him.

Annie Thomas was also patient and she was a freelance writer, so there was a reasonable chance that his irregular hours wouldn't kill the relationship. Clint hadn't needed Phil's politely worded hints to know how important that was.

He pushed open the door to the coffee shop and tried to casually survey the place as he walked to the counter. There was Phil, sitting in the corner with a mug of coffee and two files, one thick and one much thinner. It still amazed Clint that nobody could see a man with huge freaking wings sitting there, but apparently nobody could and nobody seemed to want to sit at his table, either.

There was no sign of Annie anywhere in the shop, which was strange because Clint had timed his arrival carefully. He joined the line at the counter anyway. Maybe Annie was going to arrive late today and they'd have some kind of meet cute moment where he walked into her just as she was arriving. Clint wouldn't put it past Phil to nudge something like that along, although he hoped spilling coffee on the girl wasn't in Phil's plan. That shit only worked in movies.

Of course, Phil hated romcoms so he probably wasn't planning their meeting would be _that_ cute.

Clint waited patiently in the line and smiled at the barista when he finally reached the counter.

"What's good today?" he asked.

It was habit rather than a deliberate attempt at flirting but the young man lit up and his smile was definitely flirtatious. Clint gave himself a mental kick because he was here to meet Annie Thomas, not pick up a cute guy who was definitely much too young for him. He barely looked old enough to be in college.

"What kind of thing do you like?" the barista asked.

Yeah, definitely flirting because if that question was about his cake preferences then Clint was a pink elephant.

Clint pasted on his most neutral smile and checked the guy's nametag. Tim. He'd dated a Tim a few years back. Great guy, amazing six months, then Tim had got fed up with all the cancelled dates and gently broken things off.

"Coffee," Clint said. "I like coffee."

"You're in luck, we can do coffee," Tim said cheerfully. "Anything with that? I've got some amazing chocolate cake, fresh an hour ago."

The cake under a glass dome did look pretty good, covered in frosting that promised to be dark and fudgy. Apparently Annie had good taste in cake if this was what she came to the shop for every Saturday.

"I'll take a slice," Clint said.

"For here or to go?"

"For here."

"Want some company? I’m due for a break in five."

Clint shook his head. "Not today, thanks."

"Maybe another time," Tim said with a philosophical smile that Clint kind of liked.

Way too young, Clint reminded himself firmly. And those blue eyes were only making him feel good because they looked a bit like Phil's pretty blue eyes.

Pathetic, pathetic crush.

Clint paid and picked up his mug and the plate Tim had placed an enormous slab of cake on. He turned to head for an empty table he'd earmarked as he came in...and immediately crashed into someone.

The coffee spilled. The cake got smooshed into the unfortunate victim's white sweater.

Annie Thomas glared at Clint with the kind of annoyance that definitely wasn't romcom-style meet cute kind of irritation. This was more like an end of the line, shittiest part of a shitty day, kind of anger and Clint didn't have to be psychic (or angelic) to know this wasn't going to work out well.

The worst part was watching Tim double over and clutch his stomach because he was laughing too hard as Annie berated Clint and demanded he pay for the dry-cleaning on her beautiful new sweater. That was closely followed by the part where her date looked at Clint like he'd stepped in something gross before hustling Annie out of the shop.

Tim gave him another coffee and a slice of cake free of charge. He also handed Clint a huge pile of napkins to clean himself off with, which probably meant that Clint looked exactly as drippy and ridiculous as he felt.

The real problem was that Clint didn't actually feel disappointed. As he carefully made his way to Phil's table in a secluded corner, he had to fight hard not to smile because he was relieved that it had all gone so disastrously wrong.

Phil's expression was stuck somewhere between stunned and amused. 

"I've never seen anyone crash and burn so spectacularly," he said as Clint sat down.

Clint carefully turned so no one could see his lips moving and kept his voice low. "So that wasn't your idea of nudging her in my direction?"

"That kind of thing almost never works," Phil said. "I was planning something much more subtle."

"Yeah? What kind of thing?"

"If I tell you now, you'll be expecting it the next time and then it'll never work."

"You think there's going to be a next time?"

A stack of folders suddenly appeared in Phil's hands. "We've barely even started."

Clint snorted. "You're an optimist."

"In my line of work, I have to be."

"You're also persistent."

A small, sly smile appeared on Phil's lips. "That's also necessary otherwise we'd have very short careers in SHIELD. And it works. You're starting to date again, after all."

"I-" Clint paused and frowned. "Shit, I am. Fuck. Can I stop now?"

"No."

"But I didn't even actually get a date."

"Check your napkins."

Clint blinked and looked down at the stack on the table. A scrap of yellow paper was poking out about halfway down and he carefully pulled it out, hoping it would just be an order slip or something equally innocuous.

"It's a phone number," he said, staring at the neatly written numbers with Tim's name scrawled above it. "Did you nudge the barista?"

Phil's smile was slightly smug. "Not even the smallest amount. You did that all on your own."

"He's a baby."

"He's not that young."

"You're a eight hundred years old," Clint said. "Your perspective is skewed."

***

"Are you sure he's actually trying to date or is he just messing with your head?" Sitwell said. "Because that sounds a lot like sabotage."

"He was actually trying," Phil said.

"You're still so screwed if that's him _trying_."

"Didn't he doing anything like that when you were on his case?"

Sitwell leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtful. "Actually, not really. He was more of a meet the girl or guy, go back to their place and forget to go home for three months kind of guy back then. No food throwing required. Usually he didn't even have to initiate anything. Half the time, I didn't have to nudge anyone. It just seemed to happen for him."

"Maybe that's the problem."

"What?"

Phil tapped the folder he'd set on the table. "He always seems to just fall into relationships accidentally and stay until everything falls apart. Maybe if he'd been working to win the girl--or guy--then he would have taken things slower and the relationship would have worked out better."

"You're overlooking one key issue here."

"I am?"

Sitwell grinned. "He falls off buildings for a living. Even the most Regency courtship shit in the world isn't going to get anyone past that."

Phil sighed. That was actually a really good point. He was terrified every time Clint did one of his more dangerous stunts and he wasn't even that invested in the man.

He wasn't.

Definitely not.

All those times when he caught himself thinking about Clint's smile or the way his muscles rippled when he drew his bow were completely explainable. He just needed some more time to work out what the explanation was.

And maybe some more time to figure out why he kept losing track of time when he and Clint talked in the evening. The old 'researching the mark' excuse wasn't really holding water anymore when most of their talks weren't actually about Clint's dating preferences.

Fury was going to take his wings _and_ kill him if he ever found out that Phil had been talking to his mortal.

Phil firmly pushed all that out of his mind and pointed at the couple happily cuddling on a swing not far away. It was one of those big family-type ones, the kind with a shade over it and plenty of cushions that people put in their gardens with visions of cuddling on and never actually used. This couple were bucking the trend, apparently.

"Why am I here?" Phil asked. "They don't look like they need any help."

"They're not why I called you," Sitwell said.

"I was hoping they weren't so I didn't have to get you sent to the healers to check your eyes."

"It's a good match, isn't it?"

The aura around the couple was a perfect, beautiful shade of silver. It glowed despite the bright sunshine, shimmering and sparkling with a light all of its own. Phil hadn't seen many match auras that achieved that level of perfectly coordinating colour and movement and he smiled softly as he watched them.

"It's a very good match," he said.

"They're both widowed," Sitwell said with a hint of pride in his voice. "They'd both sworn off ever trying to find anyone else and it took a lot of nudging just to get them onto a date, never mind all of that." He waved vaguely, the gesture taking in their joined hands and the happy expressions. "They matched when she proposed. I love it when that happens. Writing up the after-actions for the ones who match while they're fucking is just wrong."

Phil shuddered. He had a personal policy of not standing in the corner while his clients had sex because it made him feel like a creepy voyeur. Trying to write a report about the moment they matched when he hadn't been in the room for the climactic part--in all senses of the word--was always difficult. The forms required details, usually details he didn't have. He sometimes resorted to making things up and hoping nobody read them too carefully.

"So if they're not the problem," Phil asked, trying to force the conversation back into a safer area, "what is?"

"Let me show you."

Sitwell led the way around the large, colonial style house to a more secluded and wild part of the yard. A hammock had been set up between two large trees and there was a woman who looked to be in her early twenties stretched out in it, concentrating intently on a thick book. Her thick curly blonde hair and snub nose looked so much like the woman on the swing that Phil didn't need to see any files to know this was her daughter.

"Annalise Hammond," Sitwell said. "Daughter of Eleanor Hammond, matched and engaged and ready for her happy ever after with Steve Brent. Except if Eleanor knew about that aura, she'd break it off. Thank fuck mortals can't see the auras."

The aura was, to Phil's eyes, was at least halfway to being corrupted. Streaks of silver and gold chased around the centre but the edges were mottled an unhealthy purplish green that made his stomach roll. He itched to open his wings and fly as far away from it as fast possible because it seemed to exude waves of rank unhappiness.

"What happened to her?" Phil asked.

He'd seen some bad auras over the years, more than most agents, but this one promised to be a particularly unpleasant one when the corruption was complete.

Sitwell's wings twitched and shivered, betraying his agitation. "It's not a what, it's a who. Just wait."

They didn't have to wait for long, but Phil had more than enough time to run through most of the common reasons for an aura corruption like that. It took a lot of willpower to keep his wings still and controlled instead of showing the repulsion he felt every time he looked at Annalise.

"Here he is," Sitwell said quietly.

Theoretically the mortals couldn't see or hear him, but some instinct had always made most agents talk quietly when any were around. As Phil now had one confirmed case of a mortal who could see agents, that precaution suddenly seemed very sensible.

He looked in the direction Sitwell was pointing to. A young man had just stepped out of a side door carrying a tray with four glasses of homemade lemonade. He looked to be around Annalise's age and he had the same bright red hair as his father, although Phil judged that most of his features must have come from his deceased mother. He was tall and thin, his skin was dotted with freckles, and his face looked like it would normally smile easily.

"Rodney Brent," Sitwell said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He and Annalise graduated from different colleges a couple of months ago. They were both studying on the other side of the country so they hadn't been home much over the last year. Eleanor and Steve didn't want their children to know what was going on unless they decided it was serious, which meant the kids got home from college and were introduced to each other as potential step-siblings about two hours after they got off the airplanes. Unfortunately they'd been sitting together on their last flight and there was an immediate connection, so you can imagine how well that meeting went."

Rodney was halfway across the yard before he looked up from the tray he was carefully balancing and spotted Annalise. For one brief moment he paused, looking stricken, and then he seemed to square his shoulders and plaster on the most pleasant and distant expression he could manage before continuing to Annalise's hammock. Annalise seemed to be concentrating unusually closely on her book, but the tension in her shoulders showed that she knew Rodney was there.

It was their auras that filled in the pieces for Phil. Rodney's aura was as bad as Annalise's, gold and silver swirling together and slowly being consumed by the ugly purple-green mass that stood out like a violent bruise. Thin tendrils of silver were reaching out from both of their auras, trying to meet, but each time the searching threads almost touched an ugly ejection from the corrupted parts of their auras flew out and destroyed the connection.

Phil frowned. "They're resisting a match."

"With every fibre of their beings. I've never seen anything like it."

"I have, once or twice."

"I kind of had a feeling."

"It always ends badly," Phil said. "Where are their agents?"

Sitwell smiled sourly. "They don't have any. They're being transferred from the College Love Team but their files are still sitting in a stack in the transition department. I checked. Their previous agents are already working on the new intake and this mess is too much for them. I saw the stacks on their desks, there's no way they'll have enough time to do anything useful here."

"If nobody helps, their auras will be beyond repairs in a couple of weeks," Phil said.

"I was afraid you'd say that."

Rodney had cautiously approached the hammock now and was holding out the tray of glasses, which were rattling together as though he couldn't keep his hands steady. Annalise looked up from her book and their eyes met and held. There was so much tension--sexual, romantic, and everything in between--that Phil almost felt he was choking on it. It was amazing their parents hadn't sensed any of it, although if they were still in the blissfully happy early stages of a strong match then very little would pierce that bubble of love and togetherness.

"Any advice?" Sitwell asked. "I've tried all the standard nudges but nothing is working."

"This type of situation requires something much stronger than the standard protocols," Phil said. "They'll need a team who can repair their auras as well as encouraging the match in some unorthodox ways."

Annalise blinked and looked down at the tray, letting her long curly hair fall forward to hide her expression for a moment. The stricken expression on Rodney's face tugged at Phil's heart. Nobody should have to go through something like this.

"Dad asked me to be his best man," Rodney said.

Annalise shook her hair back and offered him a tentative, unhappy smile. "That's great. They look really happy."

"Yeah." There was an awkward silence before Rodney cleared his throat and added, "Yeah. They're happy."

"And we're happy that they're happy."

"Yeah."

"Shit, this is horrible," Sitwell said.

"It's only going to get worse if they're left to it," Phil said.

"What do we do?"

Phil watched as Annalise took a glass of lemonade and softly said thank you without quite meeting Rodney's eyes. They were probably both aware of where their feelings could lead, which was a large part of their problem. All that guilt and unhappiness was bleeding into everything they did so that even something as simple as giving out lemonade was assigned layers of meaning it wouldn't normally have had. They'd never be able to just be friends, and they were fighting everything else they could be harder than Phil had ever seen anyone fight before.

"Call in Fitzsimmons," Phil said. "They're probably the only chance those two have now."

"What about May? She's pretty good at this kind of shit," Sitwell said quickly.

"No, she's not," Phil said. "She's got no patience for this kind of thing. Call in Fitzsimmons or start filling out the paperwork for two Vault referrals, those are your options."

"They're just so...Fitzsimmons." Sitwell grimaced. "They make me feel exhausted just watching them. All that energy."

"That's why they're so good at this kind of thing."

"Fine. I'll get them in."

Rodney was finally turning away from the hammock, heading toward the swing on the other side of the house to give lemonade to his parents. Annalise watched him leave with a heartbroken expression on her face and the corrupted ugliness in her aura seemed to pulse threateningly.

"I need a drink," Sitwell said. "To get the taste of this mess out of my mouth. Come and get drunk with me."

Phil intended to say yes because a drink sounded like exactly what he needed. The words were on the tip of his tongue but somehow he found himself saying, "Not tonight, I've got somewhere I need to be."

Sitwell frowned at him and Phil left before he could add anything else.

***

Clint quietly closed his apartment door behind him and almost jumped out of his skin when he turned the light on and found Phil sitting at his dining table.

"Shit, Phil, I didn't expect you," he said. "Normally you don't visit after...is something wrong?"

There was an expression he hadn't seen on Phil's face before. When Phil wasn't practicing his bland and anonymous agent look, he was usually smiling in a way that made Clint's heart beat faster. Tonight he looked tired and defeated, as though the world had beaten him in some way that Clint didn't understand.

He was sitting slumped forward with his arms on the table and his chin resting on them. Clint didn't know whether he was more worried about the bad posture or the look in Phil's eyes. The entire picture was definitely not good.

Clint hurried across the room and pulled out the chair next to Phil's, not even bothering to take off his jacket before he sat down. It was his good jacket but a few wrinkles didn't seem important when he had a depressed angel sitting at his table.

"What happened?" Clint asked.

Phil turned his head and rested his cheek on his arms so he could look up at Clint. "Just a bad day."

"Agents have bad days?"

"Sometimes." The smile that lifted the corner of Phil's lips was strangely sad but Clint's heart skipped a beat anyway. "When agents get assigned to people who jump off buildings, we have a lot of bad days."

Clint rolled his eyes. "You get angry when I do stupid shit. This isn't you being angry. And I thought I was your only client right now anyway?"

"I was consulting for a friend."

"Your friend in trouble? Is this worse than the bride falling in love with the florist?"

"Much, much worse."

"Shit."

"My thoughts exactly."

"You look like you need to get really drunk right now."

"My friend suggested that," Phil said.

"Yeah? Angels can get drunk?"

Phil made an irritated sound and Clint grinned at him.

"Anything mortals can do, we can do," Phil said. "Including getting drunk and making bad decisions."

"Huh. How about that. So, why are you here instead of drinking with your friend?" Clint said. "It's a bit late for an after-action report."

Phil's brow creased into a frown. "Report?"

"Yeah. I had a date tonight, remember? Tim the barista?"

"Oh. That was tonight?"

"Yeah." The confusion in Phil's eyes was starting to make Clint even more worried. "Are you alright? Do I need to call someone or something?"

"No, I-"

Phil broke off and Clint leaned closer, just a fraction, because now there was definitely something wrong. It was there in the deepening lines on Phil's face and the way he'd lifted his head slightly to peer around at Clint's hand resting on his shoulder.

Clint's hand. On Phil's shoulder.

Clint experimentally squeezed and felt warm muscle under the smooth woollen fabric of a suit jacket. Phil's suit jacket.

Which he could feel.

His hand wasn't slipping through, Phil was right there warm and solid under his fingers, and Clint couldn't process that.

From the expression on Phil's face, he was having just as much trouble.

For a long moment they just sat there with Clint's hand resting on Phil's shoulder, frozen in place as though they were both waiting for something. The impossibility of what was happening and the potential for complete disaster suddenly penetrated the dazed confusion fogging Clint's mind. He snatched his hand away and stood up, stumbling back a few steps.

"What the fuck?" he asked.

Phil slowly straightened up. "I don't know."

"Maybe it's a fluke?" Clint said.

"Maybe." Phil didn't sound convinced. "That shouldn't be possible."

"What if we imagined it?"

"We could check. Actually, we probably should check."

"Right. Yes. Just in case..."

"Just in case. Yes."

Clint waited but Phil showed no sign of standing or moving. He looked to be glued to his chair and unable to even hold out a hand, which was definitely worrying because Clint had got used to Phil always knowing what to do next. Even when he'd suddenly become visible to Clint, he hadn't panicked.

Right now, Clint knew without a doubt that Phil was panicking.

And if Phil was panicking then it was up to Clint to take charge and make the first move.

Making the first move had never been Clint's strong point. He was better at reacting to other people making first moves. It was how almost every relationship he'd ever been in had worked, which probably wasn't a good comparison because every relationship he'd ever been in had eventually fizzled out or crashed and burned.

And anyway, this wasn't about a relationship so why was his brain immediately going right there?

Because he was freaking out, Clint admitted to himself. He was also no further ahead in figuring out the whole 'first move' thing because his brain was caught in some kind of weird feedback loop. It wasn't getting them anywhere. It was just leaving him standing on the spot staring at Phil with, he suspected, a dopey expression on his face.

He took a deep breath and oddly enough that made him feel calmer. Another deep breath in and out made his brain stopped racing too fast to form coherent thoughts.

Clint took a step closer to Phil. Two steps. Three. He was close enough to reach out and touch Phil's wings if he wanted to but that seemed far too intimate right now. A guy's wings were off limits to casual petting no matter how much Clint's fingers itched to feel the warm feathers.

The alarm in Phil's eyes was starting to melt away. He hesitated for a moment before standing and turning so he could face Clint. One eyebrow lifted, as if challenging Clint to make the next move.

Clint raised his right hand, palm out, and waited. Phil mirrored his actions, his eyes never leaving Clint's face.

Slowly, very slowly, Clint moved his hand closer to Phil's until their fingertips touched. Just fingertips at first, barely pressing together in case this all turned out to be some kind of strange mutual hallucination. If it was, then it was the most realistic fantasy Clint had ever experienced. The skin he was touching was warm and firm and he pushed closer until their hands were flattened together, palm to palm and finger to finger. 

Clint tore his gaze away from Phil's face to look down, studying the contrast of his tanned hand against Phil's paler one. It seemed only natural to move his fingers and slide them past Phil's so that they were clasping hands tightly, testing the strength of flesh and grip against each other.

"Guess we didn't imagine it," Clint said.

"I guess we didn't."

"Is this a problem?"

"Probably."

"Fuck."

Clint lifted his eyes from their joined hands to meet Phil's gaze and was caught there. Phil looked torn between fear and something else; something that made Clint's heart beat faster and mouth go dry. Clint's free hand seem to lift without any conscious command and he felt an odd sense of detachment as he watched his own hand cup Phil's jaw.

The skin there was soft with just a hint of scratchy stubble. His thumb settled at the corner of Phil's mouth and he pressed slightly harder, fascinated by the way Phil's throat moved as he swallowed convulsively.

Clint released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding when Phil leaned into his touch. It was the smallest movement possible, just a slight increase in pressure against his hand, but that was enough for Clint to know Phil was just as affected as he was by whatever was happening here. He tilted his head to the side slightly and started to lean closer, fascinated by the way Phil's gaze immediately dropped to his lips.

This was an angel standing in front of him, an angel who was looking at him with undisguised want, and the full importance of that suddenly hit Clint like a cold shower.

Fuck. He was trying to kiss an angel.

An angel who had thought he would get reassigned just for talking to someone like Clint. What would whoever was in charge of SHIELD do to Phil if he was caught kissing one of his clients? It would probably be something much worse than reassignment. It had to be.

Except.

Phil was a grown-ass adult who could make his own decisions and it wasn't like Clint was deliberately trying to seduce an angel. He was just...

He was seducing an angel. Shit.

Clint really hated having a strongly developed sense of ethics sometimes. It always sounded a hell of a lot like Nat's voice in his ear and he couldn't ignore it when all his senses were screaming that this was a very, very bad idea. Maybe one of the worst ideas he'd ever had and Clint had a long history of shitty ideas.

He reluctantly pulled back, untangling his fingers from Phil's and letting his other hand drop from Phil's jaw so he could take a couple of steps away and get out of temptation range.

Phil's eyes must have drifted shut while they were slowly moving in for the aborted kiss. Now he snapped them open and stared at Clint.

"Did we just nearly...?" he asked.

"Maybe?" Clint said uncertainly.

"Fuck," Phil said and disappeared.

Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair and thought seriously about wandering upstairs to talk to Nat. He didn't know what he'd say to her, though.

Opening with "Hi Nat, I just had a really dull date with a cute barista and then I went home and nearly kissed an angel" would probably get him a fast referral to some people with nice drugs and white coats. Either that or he'd be spending an afternoon talking to Banner about his feelings, even though Banner kept insisting he wasn't that kind of doctor and he definitely didn't have a temperament suited to being therapist to the Avengers.

In the end, he settled for taking a cold shower and then throwing himself into bed, where his dreams were unsettled and all he remembered in the morning was the feeling of feathers on his skin.

He was so totally screwed.


	5. Chapter 5

Phil's initial plan when he got to the Hub was to retreat to his office and have a quiet breakdown before going upstairs to Fury's office where he intended to confess everything including the part where he nearly kissed his client.

SHIELD had a handbook. It had been written centuries ago and was updated every few decades when the angelic committees decided they needed new protocols to deal with emerging social patterns or sometimes just because they were bored and it was a good way to waste a dull Sunday. Phil was sure there was a copy of the latest version somewhere in his office and his alternate plan had been to have a quiet breakdown and then search the handbook for any rules about inappropriate contact with clients.

He was fairly sure that nearly kissing his client sounded like something that qualified as inappropriate contact.

The problem with both plans was that his office wasn't empty when he opened the door. Melinda was sitting in his visitor's chair, her small red wings neatly draped over the back and her feet up on his desk.

"What are you doing here?" he asked without thinking.

Melinda smiled at him. "Hello, Phil. Nice to see you, too."

Phil closed his door and stalked across the room, painfully conscious that his wings were betraying his anxiety by shifting and shivering and he couldn't seem to make them stop.

"Sorry," he said as he sat down. "I've had a lot on my mind."

One eyebrow rose as Melinda said, "Really."

Her tone of voice was amused and Phil carefully avoided her eyes as he sat down.

"Really," he said firmly.

"Uh huh." Melinda's careful--and obvious--scan of his wings and body made Phil want to squirm uncomfortably in the chair but he fought down the urge. Her smile widened. "Poker night."

The non sequitur threw Phil for a moment. "I'm sorry?"

"Poker night. You promised you'd make it this time and I was sent to make sure you did." Melinda paused before adding, "Looks like poker is the last thing on your mind, though."

"I've just been busy." Phil pulled Clint's file out of the air and dropped it on his desk with a thick, meaty sound. "There's a lot of paperwork to do on this one."

"Paperwork. That's why you look like you're expecting the fires of hell to rain down on you at any moment. Barton's paperwork."

"He's high maintenance."

Melinda dropped her feet to the floor and sat forward, her expression shifting from amusement to concern. "Are you alright, Phil? I saw what he did to the last couple of agents."

Clint probably hadn't nearly kissed any of the other agents, Phil reflected, unless there were some significant omissions in his file.

Phil tried to offer her a reassuring smile but he had a feeling it came out closer to a grimace. "I'm fine."

"I don't believe you."

"It's nothing you need to worry about."

"So there is something?"

"Nothing I can't work through," Phil said.

"He's still swearing off love? I thought you'd got him past that stage."

Phil nodded quickly. "He's past it, he's just being Cl--Barton. You know how that goes."

"I can guess." Melinda stood and stretched her wings out, making some of the notes stuck to the side of Phil's filing cabinet flutter in the slight breeze. "Forget about Barton. It's poker night and Jasper's putting up a couple of cases of beer for his stake."

With Melinda watching him curiously, Phil couldn't think of any good excuse to get out of poker night that wouldn't make her even more worried. So he promised himself a quiet breakdown after he'd won Jasper's beer and followed her out.

***

"I need Barton to be reassigned," Phil said, dropping the thick file on Fury's desk.

"Why the fuck do you think I'll let you do that?" Fury asked.

"He's giving me an ulcer."

Fury snorted. "We don't get ulcers. Try again."

"He's nearly got himself incinerated twice since I took his case," Phil said. "And he can't seem to see a rooftop without wanting to climb onto it and then fall off it."

"You knew that going in."

"And I protested, sir," Phil said. "I told you that I couldn't do it and now I'm proving myself right. I need to be reassigned."

"Does he still have a salvageable aura?" Fury asked.

The question made Phil pause and think. He couldn't remember the last time he'd consciously looked at Clint's aura. Lately, he'd been too busy just looking at Clint and getting lost in marvelling at his eyes or his smile to pay attention to the more spiritual side. Phil closed his eyes and tried to pull up a mental picture of Clint without lingering on his physical attributes. He usually had perfect recall of important moments and it took more concentration than usual before he could focus and remember the bright, cheerful glow around Clint at breakfast yesterday.

"Yes," Phil said after a long silence. "It's stronger than it used to be."

"And is he dating?" Fury asked. "Actually dating, not accidentally falling into someone's bed and forgetting to leave it."

"He's been on a date," Phil said cautiously.

"Then I don't see the problem. His aura is receptive, he's dating--that's more than you had when I gave you the file."

For a moment Phil was frozen with indecision. This was the moment when he should confess everything and wait for Fury's judgement, which would probably be terrible and painful and nothing Phil was particularly eager to experience.

On the other hand nothing had actually happened, not in a purely literal sense, and Phil could easily make sure nothing did happen. He'd panicked unnecessarily yesterday and a night of poker with a few beers had put everything into perspective.

He'd also checked the handbook and there was nothing in there outlawing talking to or kissing his clients, not even in the tiny print at the back. The voice inside his head pointing out that was probably because this had never arisen before was irritating and Phil ignored it. He just needed to get Clint matched quickly, before either of them fell any deeper into this thing between them. Everything would be fine then.

"Are you sure you can't reassign me?" Phil asked weakly.

Fury's grin was filled with malicious joy. "Definitely not. You're exactly what he needs."

Phil sighed and picked up the file again.

He was so screwed.

***

Clint didn't catch so much as a glimpse of Phil for three days. Unlike the last time, Phil wasn't even lurking in the corners or watching him from shadowed recesses. He was just...gone.

For the first day it was a relief. His ridiculous, pathetic crush would be much easier to get over without having to see Phil every time he turned around. If Phil was gone and not coming back then Clint could put the last couple of months behind him and try to forget that he knew anything about SHIELD or angels with pretty blue eyes and wings he wanted to bury his fingers in.

On the second morning, when he shuffled out of his bedroom and experienced a moment of disorientation because there was no one sitting at his dining table, he admitted to himself that maybe he missed Phil.

Maybe.

He missed Phil's exasperated sighs when he was reading a particularly troublesome file, and the way his lips twitched when he was trying not to smile. Clint missed the quiet presence in the corner of the range, and now that he knew Phil might want him, he couldn't help wondering how closely Phil had been watching him work. He missed joking and laughing--and flirting, it was probably time to admit there had been flirting--with Phil and seeing the quiet pride in his eyes when Phil talked about his work.

It wasn't that Clint was lonely. There was always someone up in the communal kitchen and living room if he wanted company while he watched movies and ate takeout. Sometimes he reached people-overload after a while so it was impossible to be really lonely. Missing Phil was a specific and unexpected ache that he didn't think he could ease with a team pizza night.

By the afternoon of day three, Clint had to acknowledge that he was worried about Phil.

He knew almost nothing about SHIELD or how they operated apart from the occasional muttered hints Phil had let slip when his defences were down. Somehow, though, Clint felt sure that SHIELD wasn't as fluffy and sweet as their full title implied.

They'd produced Phil, after all, who didn't look particularly fluffy. Admittedly, a lot of the time he looked like an accountant with wings, but Clint thought he'd got to know Phil fairly well and there was definitely the potential for terrifying levels of badass underneath the bland suit.

Clint carefully made himself stop thinking about anything that might be under Phil's suit. That was part of what had started this problem in the first place, after all. He made a quiet promise to keep his Phil-related thoughts clean and safe from now on if he could just get some confirmation that Phil was alright.

There was always the chance that Phil had just been reassigned to another mortal. That seemed like a best case scenario right now. Phil had muttered something about someone having his wings shorn, though, and Clint couldn't imagine what that would involve. Was there some kind wingless angel Phil could be demoted to or did taking his wings mean something much worse? Something fatal for him?

Clint couldn't even talk to Nat about any of it. In the unlikely event that she believed him, he didn't know what he'd want her to tell him. She wasn't the kind of person who gave empty reassurances. It was one of the reasons he loved her so much but sometimes it made her an uncomfortable person to talk to about personal shit.

Instead Clint went to his range and shot arrow after arrow until he could barely lift his bow anymore, pushing his fear and the ache of unhappiness into a box at the back of his mind. Then he fell into bed and slept without dreaming until late the following morning.

***

There was an angel sitting on Clint's sofa when he sleepily padded out of his bedroom near noon.

Not the angel he'd been hoping for, but the dark red wings and the aura of controlled danger definitely screamed 'angel' at him. She stood as he moved closer and he saw that her wings were barely long enough for the tips to brush her waist. If it hadn't been for them, her shoulder-length black hair and nondescript dark suit would have made him guess government agency. Apparently suits were the popular fashion statement at SHIELD rather than being part of Phil's personal style.

The long searching look she gave him made Clint regret his decision not to pull on anything more substantial than the t-shirt and shorts he'd gone to sleep in. He resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably and folded his arms over his chest instead, trying to meet her gaze with a challenging one of his own.

She didn't look like someone who was intimidated easily.

"Huh," she said.

Clint frowned. "Who are you?"

"Melinda May," she said. "And you're Barton. I've heard a lot about you."

"Do you work with Phil?"

"In a way."

"Is he alright?"

Melinda raised an eyebrow. "Is there any reason he shouldn't be?"

Clint thought quickly. She could be pretending not to know what he was talking about as some kind of interrogation technique: pretend to know nothing so he accidentally confessed to something while he explained why he was worried about Phil. Of course, that assumed she knew there was something to know and...

His head was starting to hurt.

"He hasn't been around lately," Clint said, deciding to play dumb.

"Huh."

It suddenly occurred to him that he was, yet again, talking to an angel he shouldn't be able to see. This whole angels-are-invisible thing seemed to be a lot less reliable than Phil had believed.

"Why can I see you?" he said. "Phil said mortals can't see you. He seemed worried that I could and...wait, how did you know that I'd be able to see you?"

"Phil's fine," Melinda said, ignoring his words completely. "I don't know why he hasn't been around here for a while, but I saw him at headquarters this morning and he was fine."

"So why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you." Melinda looked amused. "You're a bit of a legend around SHIELD. I had to see if everything they said is true."

"And?"

Another searching examination and Clint really hoped his face wasn't as red as it felt.

A few things in your file are becoming clearer," Melinda said. "Phil will be back soon, don't worry."

"I wasn't worried."

"Sure you weren't. You always shoot until you can't draw your bow. How do those arms feel this morning?"

He was stiff and sore and desperately in need of a hot shower to loosen his muscles but Clint wasn't about to admit that to anyone. Shooting until he couldn't move was a rookie mistake that he didn't usually make and he didn't like what it said about his feelings for Phil.

"I'm fine," he said. "You still haven't told me why I can see you."

"Because I want you to," Melinda said.

She smiled mysteriously and faded away before Clint could protest.

Clint stared at the space she'd occupied for a moment before trying scrub a hand through his hair and wincing when every muscle in his arm and shoulder screamed.

"Fucking angels," he muttered as he walked to the bathroom, plotting the longest shower the Stark Tower plumbing could supply.

***

Fate was a cruel bitch so when Phil finally summoned the courage to return to the mortal realm, Clint was just emerging from the bathroom after what looked like a long shower. He was surrounded by steam, his skin was still damp, and all he was wearing was a towel around his waist that was far too brief for Phil's peace of mind.

This was just unfair, Phil decided. He'd made a solemn promise to himself to be a professional and squash any inappropriate thoughts and now Clint was practically naked right in front of him with droplets of water rolling down his chest and...

Phil pulled his gaze away from Clint's chest and forced himself to look into Clint's eyes. There was a mixture of surprise and hope there that definitely didn't help with Phil's promise.

Fuck.

He blinked and refocused on the end of Clint's nose. Much safer. Phil had spent most of the last day practicing a careful speech about his role in Clint's life and what they needed to do to make sure they didn't cross any boundaries again. It was a good speech, covering all the major points and expressing his deep regret for any misconceptions he might have allowed to grow between them.

"Why are you naked?" he said.

That wasn't in the speech. Phil mentally kicked himself.

"I took a shower?" Clint said, sounding as dazed as Phil felt.

"It's lunchtime. Why are you showering in the middle of the day?"

"I slept in."

"Oh."

Clint's mouth twitched into an unhappy pout. Phil still hadn't dared to lift his eyes above Clint's nose level or drop them below his chin. It was a very small area of Clint's face that seemed safe and the pout that was developing wasn't really very good for his composure either.

"I had a visit earlier," Clint said. "Melinda May. Claims she works with you."

Phil froze. "Melinda was here?"

"Right here, in my apartment, pretty much where you're standing. I don't think she likes me."

"She's just reserved," Phil said absently, his mind racing.

"She got that look Natasha sometimes does when she's really itching to stab someone."

"That doesn't mean anything, she looks like that around Darcy all the time."

"Who's Darcy?"

"The junior agent I'm mentoring. Melinda was really here? You saw her?"

Clint sighed. "Yes, Phil, Melinda was really here. I saw her. She talked to me. Like I said, I don't think she likes me very much. What department is she in?"

"She's in..." Phil trailed off and frowned. "Huh. Actually, I'm not sure what she's doing now. She's consulted with the Miracle Team on and off over the years and she spent a century or so with the Sapphos Team, but that was a long time ago. Did she say why she was here?"

"Something about checking whether the rumours about me were true." Clint smirked. "Am I gossip fodder in SHIELD?"

Phil coughed. "Uh."

"Wow. I don't know whether I should be proud or embarrassed about that. Or really curious about why SHIELD agents don't have anything better to gossip about than me."

"Try not to think about it too much," Phil said. "When the other options are gossiping about each other or talking office politics, gossiping about our more difficult charges becomes inevitable."

"I'm one of your more difficult charges?"

"You already knew that."

"Is there anyone else out there with a file bigger than mine?"

Phil considered it carefully. "Tony Stark. Maybe one or two movie stars."

"Not such bad company, then," Clint said with a shrug.

The motion pulled Phil's attention back down to Clint's chest, which still had a few distracting water droplets, and then he couldn't seem to resist dropping his eyes further to where a thin line of dark hair disappeared under the towel.

A muscle twitched just above Clint's hip and Phil unconsciously licked his lips.

"I'll just go and put some clothes on," Clint said, his voice sounding deeper than normal and oddly strangled.

Phil snapped his gaze up and refocused on the end of Clint's nose. "That would be a very good idea."

"And then I guess we need to talk," Clint said.

"That would be a good idea as well."

***

Clint gave himself a firm talk while he dressed in the floppiest, most ragged jeans and sweater in his wardrobe. Phil was fine, he really was, but they'd been lucky and they probably wouldn't stay lucky forever. Phil's job here was to find him someone to match with and having a crush on his personal matchmaking angel wasn't going to get that done.

It wasn't.

Not even if a tiny, sneaky part of Clint's brain was wondering whether there was any rule that said a match couldn't happen between mortals and angels.

"Bad idea, Barton," Clint muttered as he pulled on clean socks. "Don't go there."

Going there seemed like a fast track ticket to a place filled with pain and misery. If mortal/angel romances could happen then Phil would know and he wouldn't have disappeared so suddenly after their not-kiss. Keeping any kind of hope alive that this would somehow work out between them would just put off the inevitable.

Clint checked himself in the mirror and snorted. He looked thoroughly disreputable and Natasha would laugh herself sick if she saw him like this, but he couldn't imagine anyone finding him even slightly desirable right now. According to most of the magazines (not that he read them but Nat liked to hide them in his kit), his ass and arms were his best assets and the loose jeans and thick sweater completely obscured them.

If they could both keep their eyes and hands out of dangerous places then it was all going to be fine. And that meant not dressing in a way that distracted Phil.

He figured that at least he was trying to help not make things worse.

When Clint left the bedroom after another stern glare at his image in the mirror, Phil was sitting at the dining table with a steaming mug cradled in his hands and a tall stack of files in front of him. Clint made himself ignore the swooping feeling in his stomach at the sight and go straight to the fridge to dig out leftover pizza from a couple of days ago.

He always thought better when his stomach wasn't rumbling.

"So about that thing we didn't do," Clint said and lost his nerve.

He stuffed half a slice of pizza in his mouth to cover his confusion and carried the rest of the box to the table.

"I asked to be reassigned," Phil said slowly.

Clint paused mid-chew and tried to say "Yeah?" but it came out closer to "Mmmfww?".

"My boss refused," Phil said. "I don't think he knows about...the thing we didn't do. Or any of this, actually."

It took a minute for Clint to finish chewing and swallowing without choking himself. "I think Melinda does."

Phil shook his head. "If she did, I'd be...well, I wouldn't be sitting here."

"She knows I can see you."

"I did some research," Phil said. "Back in our archives there are some records. You're not the first person who could see us. Sometimes it seems to just happen."

"So I'm not that special after all?"

A small smile played on Phil's lips for a moment before he made it disappear with an obvious effort. "Not special, no."

A dozen different flirtatious responses immediately sprang into Clint's mind and he took another huge bite of pizza to keep them from being spoken.

"That thing that didn't happen," Phil said, "can't ever happen. We're not compatible."

Clint forced some more pizza in his mouth so he didn't say anything dirty, flirty, or desperate.

"I've been told that I'll stay on your case until I match you or one of us dies, so I brought some files," Phil continued. "We should start putting together another list of candidates to speed things along. Unless your date went well?"

"Not so much," Clint said. "We didn't even make it to dessert."

Good dates didn't usually result in nearly kissing someone else afterward. Clint carefully didn't say that out loud.

"Maybe if you walk me through it for the after-action report, we can work out why it didn't go well," Phil said.

"It didn't work out because he's way too young and we had nothing in common," Clint said. "Next time, we go with the candidate you chose instead of the guy I accidentally picked up instead. I mean, isn't my big problem that I'm bad at all this relationship shit?"

"You seem to have no problem forming attachments. It's finding the right person so the attachment lasts that's your problem."

"Exactly."

Phil nodded firmly and pulled the first folder off his stack. "Then we'd best get started."


	6. Chapter 6

The first candidate on the new list was surprisingly difficult to meet. Clint vetoed anymore coffee shops and then he spent three days thinking up increasingly ridiculous ways to meet her.

"What if I rescue her dog from some kind of big and terrifying mutant creature?" he asked.

"Does she have a dog?" Phil said.

Clint shrugged. "Don't know, but she looks like a dog person. If you'd translate the entire file into something I could read then this would be much easier."

Phil rolled his eyes. "No."

"Aw, Phil."

"No. If you can read her entire file then there won't be anything for you to learn about her and isn't that one of the important parts of an early relationship? I could have sworn you were waxing lyrical about that a few days ago."

"How am I supposed to meet her if you won't tell me anything about her? What, are you just going to arrange for us to accidentally bump into each other and fall onto each other's lips?"

"...No." The tips of Phil's ears turned a faint shade of pink. "I've been doing this for a long time. Just trust me, you'll meet her without having to resort to endangering her pets and rescuing them."

"Fine."

Clint nocked another arrow on his bowstring and turned his back to Phil so he could concentrate on shooting. For a few minutes the only sound in the range was the quiet thwang-thunk of arrows flying into their targets.

"What if I started hanging out in the library where she works?"

He turned around just in time to see Phil put his head in his hands with a muffled but despairing moan. His next three arrows were hopelessly off-target and Clint blamed it entirely on the new arrows Stark had given him, trying to ignore the hot needy want that had settled in his gut when he heard the moan.

***

Clint ducked as some kind of lightning bold zapped over his head. The afternoon was turning out to be one of those fights where nothing went right and they'd probably have another long letter of complaint from half the businesses in Manhattan about the damage that had been caused. They never complained to the universities that allowed their students to breed dangerous mutant creatures. Everyone seemed to blame the Avengers even though they were the ones trying to contain and remove the things.

It wasn't fair, Clint mused as he rolled to his feet, pulling an arrow from his quiver. Nock, draw, release, and he was already sprinting across the street when he heard the boom of his arrow exploding and hopefully taking its target with it.

The monster of the day was some kind of horse-eagle-jellyfish hybrid. It had huge wings, the body of a horse, and some weird fringy tentacle things that shot lightning bolts. As horrible science experiments gone wrong went, this was definitely near the top of Clint's "Urgh Do Not Want" list.

Nothing should have that many tentacles and the power of flight. Nothing. _Nothing_.

Clint skidded behind the shelter of a car and tapped his ear comm. "How are we doing, Cap?"

"Six left in the air," Steve said, sounding slightly breathless. "Can you get up high somewhere? We could use your eyes. These things are a lot more manoeuvrable than they look."

"Tell me about it. I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Hawkeye."

Clint surveyed the street around him, trying to locate a building that was both tall and had the kind of easy access where he wouldn't spend ten minutes trying to break down a door. High overhead he could see Thor battling one of the horse-eagle things, trading lightning strikes with no effect at all to either of them. For once, Thor's major battle tactic wasn't actually that helpful for them. It was the explosive arrows and Stark's repulsors that were proving more effective, although Clint had seen Steve and Natasha tag-teaming one of the creatures earlier and their combination of bullets and shield slices had eventually taken it down.

It was taking far too long to stop each one.

The Hulk was virtually useless, only able to roar and jump at the creatures and then destroy everything around him each time the 'birdies' flapped out of his range.

Like he'd said, these things were much faster than they looked.

Clint spotted a good building halfway down the block and began running to it. He heard the fight overhead before he saw it and his hand instinctively went to his quiver even as he peered around, trying to locate the danger. Iron Man was pursuing one of the horse-eagle things, firing at it so fast it looked like a constant stream of repulsor blasts. Before Clint could do anything he spotted the tell-tale streaks of small missiles fanning out from the Iron Man armour. Most of them hit the creature and it erupted into flames, turning into a massive fireball that crashed through a wall. There was a shattering boom but Stark was already flying away, pursuing another target.

Rubble rained down on the street as Clint ran, dodging the larger pieces of masonry and feeling the sting as small shards struck his exposed neck and arms.

The building that had been partially destroyed shouldn't have still been occupied but he had to check. It was what they did, making sure everyone was safe when chaos and fire suddenly entered peoples' lives.

Someone was screaming, the sound high and terrified, and Clint put on an extra burst of speed. Three storeys up, huddled on the remains of what must have once been a floor, there was a woman. Only a couple of feet of the floor remained, the rest had fallen into the gaping void at the centre of the building, and she was sitting as close to the wall as she could. As Clint watched, there was a low groaning sound and the narrow section sagged so that she slid and had to scramble back with a startled shout.

"Stay right there, I'm getting you down," he shouted.

There was an edge of hysteria in the woman's voice as she laughed. "I'm not going anywhere!"

Clint pulled a grappling arrow out of his quiver--his last one--and nocked it. The wall that the woman was clinging to was one of the few parts of the building that still looked stable and Clint took a careful calming breath before taking his shot. His arrow made a satisfying crunch sound as it embedded in the concrete just below what had been the fourth floor. Clint tugged the line a couple of times but it held securely and the wall didn't make any worrying sounds or start showering dust the way they sometimes did just before his grapples fell away or the wall collapsed.

He didn't notice at first that there were charred books and pages littering the ground around him. Rubble all started to look the same after a while and the ruins in the bottom of the building were a sharp, jagged mess. It was only as he was carefully pulling himself up the line, trying to avoid the splintered ends of shelves, that he realised a lot of the remains looked like bookshelves. A lot of bookshelves.

The building had been a library.

Clint frowned and carried on climbing.

He didn't even try his weight on the narrow ledge the woman was sitting on. Instead he carefully walked himself across the wall until he was close enough for her to reach out and touch him. He gave her an encouraging smile.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Now that he was closer he could see that under the dust and soot she was blonde and her face looked weirdly familiar. Libraries weren't somewhere he usually hung out much, not unless he was trying to meet-

Clint swore in his head as it hit him where he'd seen her before.

At the same time, she said in a low, frightened voice, "Amy Jackson."

Fuck. He was going to kill Phil. Or at least, yell at him. He didn't know whether it was possible to kill angels and he definitely didn't want to find out what happened to people who tried, but he promised himself an extended rant the moment he got home.

"Nice to meet you, Amy," Clint said, pushing all thoughts of Phil out of his head. "Now, I can't let go of this rope so you're going to need to reach out and climb onto my back. Then we'll get you out of here, OK?"

"Climb on your back?"

"Sure, it'll be easy."

Amy looked sceptical and she didn't move. "Are you sure your line can hold both of us? It doesn't look strong enough."

"I'm sure," Clint said firmly. "Best Stark tech around. It's been tested for way more than just our weight, promise. I could attach the Hulk and two tanks to this thing and it wouldn't snap."

It was a total lie and Amy's expression said that she knew it, but she reached out anyway. A moment later Clint felt her arms clinging around his neck and her legs wrapping around his waist. She was warm and soft against his back and under other circumstances he might even have enjoyed the puff of air against his neck as she buried her head on his shoulder.

"Ready?" Clint said. "I'm going to swing us out a bit as we go down so we miss the worst of the rubble at the bottom. That sound OK?"

He felt her nodding and decided that was the closest he was going to get to an OK right now. Swinging out and sliding down the line with a passenger on his back wasn't easy but he'd been forced to do worse over the years. At least Amy didn't try to strangle him or constantly wriggle: she let her legs around his waist take a lot of her weight and she seemed to be holding herself carefully so she wouldn't interfere with his movements. Even when he bounced out in mid-air to swing a few feet further out, her only reaction was a quiet gasp.

It was all going smoothly, much better than Clint had hoped for, so of course it all had to go wrong before they made it to the ground. Clint was bouncing out for one last swing and descent, aiming for a clear patch of ground at the base of the wall. In the middle of his swing he heard a loud, angry braying sound above and looked up just in time to see a horse-eagle thing flying straight for them with Thor chasing it. Lightning streaked out from the creature's tentacles and hit the line with deadly accuracy. It burst into flame and snapped.

Clint twisted desperately in the air and managed to turn so that Amy wasn't directly under him as he fell but it wasn't enough. Her scream as he landed on her arm seemed to echo up and down the street before she thankfully passed out. Pain shot through his chest when he tried to take a breath and he couldn't decide whether the warm blood that had splashed on his shoulder and down his side was his or Amy's.

Someone was talking urgently in his ear but a loud buzzing sound downed it out and then darkness swallowed him.

***

Phil kept his eyes on the page he'd been trying to read for the last hour when he heard the apartment door swing open, followed by the sound of uneven footsteps crossing the living area. If he looked up then he would be admitting that he'd been worried and he hadn't.

He definitely hadn't.

Being worried would imply that his feelings for Clint were still stronger than they should be and that would be wrong. Dangerous, even.

Agents needed to maintain a certain level of detachment from their clients in order to work at their optimum efficiency. How could an agent hope to match a client successfully if they were half in love with the client themselves? Answer: they couldn't. So clearly if he was going to maintain his perfect record then he needed to regain the correct emotional distance.

That meant he needed to stop worrying about Clint every time he went out to throw himself off things and he really needed to make sure Clint didn't have any reason to think he was worrying.

The logic got tangled somewhere in his head each time he tried to give himself this lecture but Phil was determined. He'd get past this minor infatuation and everything would be absolutely fine.

The soft sound of Clint lowering himself carefully onto the sofa followed by a low grunt made Phil look up before he could stop himself. He cursed quietly and pretended that he was just checking to make sure Clint wasn't too badly damaged so he could report it in the file.

Lying to himself wasn't a thing he'd had much practice at until now but he seemed to be doing just fine at it.

He'd seen Clint being treated on-site only a few hours ago so logically he knew Clint couldn't be badly injured if he was home already. At least he was ambulatory and he'd recovered his faculties sufficiently to discharge himself and get himself home safely. Phil was too familiar with the medical records to imagine Clint would have actually waited until the doctors said he was good to go if he was fed up with being in the hospital. Clint's files had a string of self-discharges listed and at least one agent had quit his case citing the stress of watching him stumble out of hospitals half-dead as a cause.

Despite knowing all that, knowing Clint would be bruised and battered but otherwise fine if he was home already, Phil had to stand up and walk over to the sofa to check. For the SHIELD file. Obviously.

He crossed his arms over his chest and mantled his wings, trying to project irritation and frustration rather than the fear that had been coursing through his body since he watched Clint fall. It was a trick he'd learned from Fury, who could even make Hill cringe slightly with some subtle shifts in wing position and a bit of glowering.

Clint gave him a startled, slightly intimidated look, and Phil refused to allow himself a triumphant smile.

"Shit, Phil, what did I do?" Clint asked.

One eye was swollen shut with bruising and half a dozen Band-Aids hid cuts and grazes on his face. White gauze covered his arms and disappeared under the short sleeves of his t-shirt. The uneven footsteps were probably because he was wearing mismatched boots and Phil wondered for a moment what had happened to his own footwear before dismissing the thought.

"What is your problem with sleeves?"

That wasn't what he'd intended to say. Phil clenched his teeth against adding anything else.

Clint's brow creased in confusion. "What?"

Phil took a calming breath and reminded himself that he was supposed to be asking Clint something else. Something pertinent to his role here as Clint's SHIELD agent.

"Are you allergic to sleeves? Your arms are a mess."

Maybe he should just stop talking now.

"Sleeves get in the way when I'm shooting," Clint said. "Trust me, I tried it. One sleeve looks fucking weird and a sleeve on my bow arm just doesn't work."

Phil had seen some of Clint's old Hawkeye uniforms and he had to admit that Clint had a point: some of the one-sleeve-only outfits had looked ridiculous. But then again, so had the phase where his uniform was a short skirt and little else. Clint had a bad track record when it came to uniform design and the current one was by far his best. The tight cut was probably mostly about being practical, but it enhanced all his best assets and that...was entirely irrelevant.

Completely.

Phil gave himself a mental slap and refocused. "Are you alright?"

"Sore but nothing's broken and they don't think I have a concussion," Clint said with forced lightness. "That's not bad after falling ten feet and landing on a bunch of rubble. Oh yeah, and _landing on a woman I was supposed to be meeting_."

The last sentence was issued from between gritted teeth and his tone of voice was definitely...upset. Perhaps veering into angry territory.

"What?" Phil said.

"Yeah, when you said you were working on something, I thought you meant something normal. Something regular people do. Especially after all that talk about not endangering her pets or myself to impress her. Remember all that shit? You specifically told me not to try anything crazy because you had a plan."

"I'm sorry, I'm lost," Phil said.

Clint gave him a disbelieving look. "Seriously? We're doing that? You think I won't know who Amy Jackson is when I'm rescuing her from a collapsing building? Phil, I saw her photo a dozen times. She told me her fucking name."

"The woman you rescued..."

"Was Amy Jackson. Top of your list of people I might match to. Dude, I've got to say, as ways to meet women go that was the actual worst. Pretty sure the meet cute moment is not supposed to involve death and destruction."

"That wasn't me," Phil said. "I didn't know she'd be there."

"The horse-eagle things blew up her library."

"That wasn't something I planned. I'd been nudging things so you'd meet her tomorrow in...ah...a less destructive setting."

"Really?"

"Really."

Phil hadn't really seen the woman properly when Clint carried her down, just an impression of blonde hair and sooty skin. He'd been too focussed on watching Clint and checking that he hadn't died when everything went to hell to pay attention to who he was rescuing. After all, Phil had all the nudging planned and in motion and they weren't supposed to meet that way.

They weren't. It shouldn't have been possible.

His nudging abilities were usually perfect. Random meetings like this had never happened to him with other clients.

Apparently Clint Barton could break all the rules just by existing. It certainly explained why so many agents had burned out trying to get him into a match.

"So how is she?" Phil asked after a short, thoughtful silence.

Clint snorted. "I broke her arm in four places when I landed on it. And her shoulder got dislocated. That probably isn't the start of a beautiful romance, sorry."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Phil allowed his wings to settle against his back and he uncrossed his arms, trying to look more sympathetic and less threatening. There was always the hope they could salvage something from this mess. "You could try visiting her tomorrow. Perhaps with some flowers, it could be a-"

"Yeah, no, I don't think so," Clint said. "I passed her hospital room on the way out and she started swearing at me and threatening legal action. Stark may need to lend me a lawyer."

"Oh."

"So maybe we should cross her off the list."

"She's already gone." Phil reached out and plucked Clint's file, with its neatly annotated list on the front, out of thin air. He took a pen out of his breast pocket and made a quick note on the list, looking up to find Clint watching him with a fascinated expression. "What?"

"Doesn't matter how many times I see you do that, I can't work out how you do that," Clint said. "Do you have some kind of magical bubble or something that you keep your paperwork in?"

Phil shrugged and let the folder disappear. "Sort of. It's complicated."

"I'm not really in the mood for complicated right now," Clint said.

"I should let you rest."

There were lines around Clint's mouth that hadn't been there earlier and he had that pinched expression he got when he was exhausted and didn't want to acknowledge it. Phil didn't know when he'd got to know Clint's expressions so well, but he had to fight down the urge to trace the lines with his fingers.

"Don't go," Clint said. "I won't sleep yet and I could use some company. Everyone's still working on the clean-up. I'm just going to stick a movie in the DVD but...stay?"

It was a terrible, terrible idea. Ridiculous. The kind of idea Darcy would laugh at because it was so obviously a bad plan.

Phil sat down on the other end of the sofa anyway and told himself that this wasn't a problem. He could spent time here watching movies, it didn't have to mean anything else.

It didn't mean that he was letting himself get compromised again right after promising they wouldn't do this.

The laughter in his head sounded a lot like Sitwell's and Phil firmly told his guilty conscience to take a hike for the night.

***

Clint woke up before dawn feeling stiff and sore but oddly warm. He was sprawled out on his sofa with the menu screen of the last movie he'd been watching still playing softly on the TV. His memories of yesterday were fuzzy in places but he remembered certain things very clearly.

The shock of falling and Amy's screams when they landed.

The surprise in Phil's eyes when he'd realised who Amy was and how badly screwed up that whole mess was.

Watching a whole series of classic movies after Phil revealed that he'd never actually seen any of them.

Clint had been torn between watching the screen and watching Phil's face as he discovered _Casablanca_ and _Star Wars_. Despite all of Phil's stern distain for romcom tropes, he seemed to genuinely enjoy good films even if they were romances. The last thing Clint remembered before he'd fallen asleep was hitting play on another DVD and fighting to keep his eyes open so he could watch Phil's reactions to _An Affair to Remember_. Exhaustion had caught up, though, and he'd drifted into sleep before the opening credits finished.

His bruises and strained muscles were now complaining painfully about a night on the sofa and Clint couldn't understand why he felt warm and comfortable when he'd spent the night without even a blanket. A slight chill was already settling in, as though he'd been covered by something that kept the heat in but now whatever it was had gone.

Maybe that's what had woken him up? Something was nagging at the back of his mind, a sense memory that he couldn't quite place, but he was still too sleep-fuzzed to pull it free. He carefully sat up and stretched, groaning quietly as stiff joints protested the movements. It was definitely time to move the nap to his bed, where he'd be warm and comfortable for a few hours and hopefully sleep off the worst of his post-fall discomfort.

Something poked his thigh as he moved. Clint felt around on the cushion and his fingers closed around something soft. He frowned as he pulled it out from under his leg and blinked at it.

One long, black feather.

Hints of colour shifted under the surface sheen, the iridescence making the feather unexpectedly beautiful in the right light.

Clint stared at it, twirling it between his fingers while he tried to think and remember. The only thing that he could tease out of his memories was a contented feeling of being safe and warm while he slept. It was a good feeling, one he couldn't remember having for a long time.

He sighed and stood up. It was just a feather, it didn't need to mean anything. Probably it had been caught in the couch cushions for weeks and he just hadn't noticed it because he hadn't napped on the sofa for a long time. Clint walked slowly into his bedroom, stripping out of his t-shirt and jeans as he went. He almost left the feather in his tangle of clothing on the floor, something to throw out tomorrow when he sent everything down to the Tower's laundry, but he hesitated and went back.

Picked up the feather and contemplated it for a moment.

Put the feather carefully into a drawer where he kept other important keepsakes.

He told himself that it was just because there was no telling what someone might do with an angel's feather and not because it meant something to him. Then he fell into bed and dragged the covers up over his head so he could sleep.

***

"So, how's the whole Barton thing going?" Sitwell asked.

Phil didn't jump, although his wings flicked out slightly before he got them under control again. Not jumping or startling excessively was important when the place he'd chosen to watch the Avengers' latest battle from was a thin horizontal pole sticking out halfway up a building. It was probably supposed to hold a flag, although the building had been abandoned for years. Falling from this height would be completely undignified because there wasn't quite enough distance from the ground to get his wings working properly.

He always tried not to think too much about how physics and agents interacted. It was never a good idea.

Phil turned carefully to find Sitwell hovering just behind him. How Sitwell hovered with large silver wings was a mystery that Phil had been trying to unravel for centuries. Melinda's wings were close to a hummingbird's so it was easy to see how she did it. Phil had never seen a pigeon hover successfully.

"The Barton thing?" Phil asked.

"Yeah. I heard he broke the arm of your last candidate."

"It was an accident," Phil said. "They weren't even supposed to meet that day."

"He has a lot of those."

"What?"

"Accidents." Sitwell nodded to the flagpole. "Mind if I join you?"

Phil nodded and watched as Sitwell swooped up and around to land neatly next to him.

"Accidents?" Phil prompted when Sitwell had settled securely.

"Accidents. Your boy has a lot of those. You haven't noticed in his file?"

"I've been through his file backwards and forwards."

"So have I," Sitwell said. "Back when he was my client. I was looking for a way to stop him jumping off every high surface he could find, figured that might give me a chance at getting him a relationship that actually ended up with a match. I reviewed the file a couple of days ago after I heard about his last disaster."

"You reviewed my file?"

"Like you've never taken a look at one of mine," Sitwell said. "Anyway, point is this. He has a _lot_ of accidents. Meeting people his agent didn't nudge him to, falling over the people his agent was trying to nudge him to at the wrong time, fucking things up no matter what his agent was working on. I've never seen anyone with a record like that for getting in the way of his own agent's nudging. And it got me thinking, maybe that's the problem. He's not unmatchable. Somewhere out there is the person he could match to but we, his agents, can't nudge him into it. Maybe he's just completely immune to nudging and we have to stop trying to push him into things and wait for shit to happen to him instead."

Phil raised an eyebrow. "That's your thought?"

"It's a good thought!"

"It's a crazy thought. Nobody's immune to us unless their auras are completely corrupted and look at him. His aura's fine. Better than fine now."

Down on the ground, Clint was collecting arrows from the corpses of the creatures he'd been fighting all afternoon. He'd healed from his last fight and, for once, the only injury he was sporting from this one was a small graze on one shoulder that was still oozing slightly. His hair was dishevelled and there were streaks of dirt on his skin, just enough to signal that it had been a hard fight but not so much that he would repel everyone around him. Phil was feeling slightly surprised by how well everything in his plan was going so far.

Clint's aura was a bright solid gold, far stronger than it had been when Phil first got assigned to him, and that was also a source of satisfaction. An aura like that was ripe for matching and Phil had picked out just the right person this time.

"It's a good aura," Sitwell said. "Did you get anyone in to repair it because I don't remember his aura being that good?"

"No repairs, that's all him," Phil said, allowing himself to feel slightly smug for once.

"I've never seen anything like it," Sitwell said quietly.

"I've seen a few auras strengthen themselves spontaneously," Phil said. "Not for a long time, but I've seen it happen."

"Huh."

"Are you just here to pick at my client or did you have something important to tell me?"

"Mostly I'm here to watch your client crash and burn again," Sitwell said with a grin. "You're nudging him to the EMT, right? Thought that didn't work the last time you tried it."

"That was back when he was out of the dating game. Now that he's receptive again, the EMT is the best candidate I've seen."

They watched as the EMT in question hurried over to Clint with his bag and began talking. Clint looked amused for a moment, shaking his head, before shrugging and allowing the guy to start cleaning the graze on his shoulder. There was a flirty smile on Clint's lips and Phil told himself that he really wasn't jealous. Not at all.

Jealousy was not an emotion agents felt, particularly not when it came to pretty young men touching their clients.

"Huh, guess it's working," Sitwell said. "How about that?"

"I do know what I'm doing here," Phil said.

"I was starting to wonder. You've never taken this long to get a client matched, even one with a record like Barton's."

"Don't worry, my record will be staying intact," Phil said, ignoring the hollow feeling inside. "I have a good feeling about this one."

"Good."

"So what was the other reason you're here?"

"Oh, that." Sitwell grinned. "Thought you'd want to know. Darcy is having her interview with Fury right now. She got her first solo match this morning. First solo _intentional_ match."

"She did?"

"You know, if you'd spent more time up at HQ lately and less time hanging out on your client's shooting range, you'd know this shit."

A bolt of pure, untempered guilt shot through Phil and he winced. "I should be-"

"Right here, getting your client matched," Sitwell said firmly. "She'll be fine. You know her, she's good when she concentrates. It's past time for her to graduate to full agent status. She'll be on a new team that's floating across divisions for a while. Her latest match? Three-times divorcee to a widower, they met online. That's a tough sell and she did it, no outside help or interference."

"I knew she'd be good."

"She'll be great. Fury's probably already got his eye on moving her into your department after she's spent a century or two sampling everything else SHIELD has to offer."

"When is her party?"

Sitwell checked his watch. "About four hours from now."

"I'll be there."

"Make sure you are."

Phil nodded and watched as Clint accepted a piece of paper from the EMT, which he already knew would contain a phone number. He definitely wasn't jealous. Nope.

Sitwell was just starting to fade out when Phil remembered something he'd been meaning to ask.

"Jasper?"

"What? I've got a party to organise, can't sit around here all day," Sitwell said as he solidified again.

"How are that young couple doing?" Phil asked. "Annalise and Rodney?"

A soft smile lit up Sitwell's face. "They're doing fine. Fitzsimmons worked their miracle on the auras and there's going to be a double wedding in a couple of months. First one I've managed in decades."

"Why do you go to the weddings?"

"The match is only the first step," Sitwell said. "It's the part that follows that's the important bit: two people figuring out how to make their lives work together after they've had that blinding moment of revelation. The wedding is the visible symbol of that."

"Oh."

"Is that everything? I've got to go before Melinda spikes the punch."

He disappeared before Phil could pull him back again.

Phil spent a couple of minutes watching Clint flirt with the EMT. It was a good choice. They'd be compatible emotionally and physically and even from up here he could read Clint's body language, which told him that Clint was attracted. If this worked out and they matched, it would be a good thing. Phil gritted his teeth and waited until the EMT was called back to his rig, leaving Clint alone with the corpses again.

Clint grinned when Phil landed in front of him, the smile hitting Phil's gut like a sucker punch.

"Hey, so I think I just scored a date," Clint said. "And a phone number. Which, clearly, yeah. A phone number and a date."

"Well done," Phil said.

"He is the right guy, isn't he? I didn't just accidentally pick up the wrong guy again?"

"No, he's the right one."

"Because I'm pretty sure he's the same guy who tried to pass me his phone number a few months ago and I wasn't sure whether this was coincidence or my crappy luck fucking up your plans again."

Phil forced himself to smile. "He's the right one, don't worry. I have a good feeling about him. You weren't ready the last time but now, I think you might be."

"You have a good feeling about him?" Clint seemed to search his face carefully. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Phil cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I might not be around for a couple of days."

Clint suddenly seemed intensely interested in checking the state of an arrowhead. "Oh. Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Phil said. "The agent I've been mentoring is graduating from her probation today. There's going to be a party. These things can last for a couple of days."

"Ang-agents know how to party when they get going?"

"Something like that."

"Sounds fun."

"It should be."

There was an awkward silence for a minute.

"You should probably get going," Clint said after a while. "Don't want you being late to the party. I'm getting out of here soon, anyway. Stark was saying something about eating our body weights in pizza tonight. I think he meant that literally."

"Knowing Stark, he probably did," Phil said with a small smile. "Have fun tonight."

"You too."

He was just turning away to disappear when Clint reached out and grabbed his wrist. Phil hesitated and looked down, clinically noting the warmth and roughness of Clint's hand against his skin.

"My date," Clint said. "It's tomorrow night. I just...for the file. I thought you should know."

"For the file," Phil repeated.

"Yeah."

For a long moment he stayed where he was, frozen, held immobile by Clint's hand wrapped gently around his wrist and the intense look in Clint's eyes. They were playing with fire again and Phil felt like he was burning.

A loud Hulkish roar in the distance broke the spell and Phil jerked away. His skin felt cold where it had been covered by Clint's hand and he had to take two careful steps back so that he didn't reach out for Clint's touch again.

"You have a party to get to," Clint said, his voice sounding shaky and raw.

"I do," Phil said. "I'll see you in a couple of days."

"Yeah, a couple of days." Clint's lips tilted into an unhappy smile. "You've got to get the after-action on my date, after all."

"I'll look forward to it," Phil said.

He didn't think Clint believed his lie but then, he wouldn't have believed himself either. Phil nodded brusquely and transported away before he could do anything stupid.

***

Parties in SHIELD headquarters were usually held in whichever break room the organiser happened to use regularly and could get access to for long enough to have one. There were a lot of break rooms dotted around the headquarters and some of them had a tendency to move around on a whim. It was the downside to working in a place that was built from a combination of ancient power and human imagination. A mortal hit on an idea and made it popular and somewhere in one of the angelic organisations, the idea manifested itself.

Phil sometimes wondered what the other organisations looked like on their home turf, but he wasn't curious enough to risk his soul and actually find out.

The break room that had been selected for Darcy's party was the usual one that he, Darcy, Sitwell, and Melinda used, but it had been transformed. The shabby chairs and couches and the table of doughnuts and bagels were gone, replaced by something far grander.

Something much more like SHIELD had looked in centuries past.

The room was easily four times its usual size, a huge chamber with marble columns and polished floors almost like something out of an ancient temple. There were even roses climbing some of the columns and somehow there were cherry blossoms floating in the air even though there were no cherry trees to be seen. Luxurious divans and fainting couches replaced the tired old chairs and there were huge piles of cushions scattered beside them for the more limber agents to recline on.

A wooden table groaning with food replaced the plastic card table where snacks and coffee pots had previously sat. The smells from the roast meats, fish, and pastries made Phil's mouth water. It had been a long time since they'd held a party like this. Even though he didn't really need to eat, he'd never lost the taste for food and the instinctive sense of comfort it provided.

There were dozens of agents milling around and the room was filled with a sense of anticipation. Most of the agents had changed out of their sober suits and into something a little more celebratory, so everywhere Phil turned there were bright colours and shifting wings.

"Phil!"

He turned to find Melinda beckoning at him and he smiled as he headed in her direction. She was one of the few not wearing full party regalia but he'd never seen her wear anything that wasn't sober black so he wasn't surprised. She'd unbent enough to wear a casual shirt and black trousers instead of her suit, and her bright red wings almost looked to be quivering with tension.

Sitwell stood beside her and he had pulled out something brighter than his usual suit as well. The dark green outfit looked like something from Regency England but it contrasted nicely with his silver feathers. Fitz and Simmons rounded out the group, and Phil recognised the style of their clothing and fervently wished that someone would take Fitz aside one day to instruct him on which patterns and colours could be worn together and which ones gave people headaches. His tie and shirt weren't just clashing they were fighting each other to the death.

"Have I missed anything?" Phil asked.

"She's still in there," Melinda said.

"Still?"

"Still," Sitwell confirmed. "It's been four hours now. Longest we've seen for a long time."

"We were in for three hours when we graduated," Simmons said.

"To be fair, there were two of us," Fitz said.

"We're more or less a package deal, though," Simmons said. "It's not like he could have graduated you and left me in probation. Could he?"

"He's probably just being thorough," Sitwell said. "She did accidentally create a Romeo and Juliet."

"Which she was able to fix," Melinda said. "It was some good work."

"You saw it?" Phil said.

"Of course I did. Who do you think walked her through repairing the damage? You've been a little busy lately."

Simmons grinned. "I heard about that. How is Barton doing? Do you need our help with anything?"

Phil shook his head. "His aura seems to be just fine. Better than ever. I might even be able to record a match soon. I've got a good feeling about the latest candidate."

Melinda raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really." Phil pretended he couldn't hear how hollow his voice sounded, or feel how much his chest was aching at the thought of Clint matching and walking out of his life. At the thought of Clint loving someone else and looking at someone else with that raw intensity in his eyes. Phil looked away from the group, trying to find something to distract them. "Who are they?"

His eyes had fallen on a new pair of agents standing hesitantly just inside the doorway. The woman looked incredibly young--even younger than Darcy or Simmons--and her male partner had the fresh-faced look of someone who had only been on the job for a few years. Phil thought the man's face looked vaguely familiar and he tried to place it but the memory kept slipping away.

"Agent Grant Ward and his protégée," Melinda said. "He's been on the Office Team for the last couple of decades but I heard he's moved over to the Baristas and Retail Team so he can mentor the fledgling."

Simmons tilted her head curiously. "Huh. She's barely had her wings for more than a few days."

"Skye," Melinda said. "Very young, very talented. She started out...somewhere else. We picked her up when she broke into the Vault to look around."

"She broke into the Vault?" Phil asked. "When? Why didn't I hear?"

"You've been busy and Fury hasn't been publicising it."

"How do you know about it?"

Melinda rolled her eyes and Phil knew she wasn't going to tell him. Skye had fine, small wings that almost seemed to shimmer under the light while Ward's wings were dappled brown and looked heavy and strong. They were an odd contrast but Phil suspected that he'd looked like an equally strange choice as Darcy's mentor when they first started out. Judging by external appearance wasn't a good way to tell whether people would work well together.

"She looks like she'd be fun," Simmons said thoughtfully. "He looks...less fun."

"You can tell that just from three seconds of watching them?" Fitz said.

"No," Simmons said, "but she's already eyeing up the chocolate cream puddings and Ward looks like someone put lemon juice in his coffee."

Phil could vaguely remember reading an evaluation of Ward a long time ago. Not as a potential candidate for the Miracle Team, but he thought he remembered Ward recommending several cases to the Vault and he'd checked Ward's background before auditing the files. The man was prickly and irritable but very good at what he did. All of his recommendations had ended up in the Vault, if Phil remembered correctly, but his match success rate was still high.

Simmons raised a hand in a wild gesture and a moment later Skye was dragging Ward in their direction. It was obvious that he wasn't happy about it but Phil couldn't tell whether he was unhappy about the dragging or at having to join them. Ward ended up being folded into conversation with Fitz, Simmons, and Skye anyway, and Phil moved slightly away from them with Melinda and Sitwell.

"Do you think I should see whether Darcy needs any help?" he said.

Sitwell grinned. "I think that would be a really bad idea. Why don't you tell Melinda about Barton's latest incident instead?"

There was a stir on the other side of the room before Phil could say anything and he turned gratefully. The less he talked about Clint, the better for everyone involved, was all he could think.

Darcy stood in the doorway looking paler than he'd ever seen her. She didn't seem to know what to say or do and the sudden impact of dozens of pairs of eyes focusing on her seemed to make her hunch in on herself for a moment. Her wings flared out, sending cherry blossoms fluttering wildly in the sudden breeze.

"Uh," Darcy said. "I think I passed?"

The burst of clapping and shouting made her blink and a smile cautiously edged onto her face, growing slowly as the applause continued and the reality of her graduation finally seemed to sink in.

"Holy shit," Darcy said. "I'm a motherfucking angel!"

There was a roar of laughter and several people threw pens and balled up bits of paper at her in retaliation for using the A word, which usually carried a steep fine and a week of silent glaring as a penalty. As it was graduation day, and at least half of the people in the room had said something similar when they left their Fury interview, nobody minded.

Much.

The tension broke and Darcy grinned around her as people started congratulating her and shaking her hand. Phil heard Simmons mutter something about "finally" before she and Skye disappeared in the direction of the food, leaving Fitz and Ward to stand awkwardly trying not to look at each other or look like they were trying not to look at each other.

Sitwell disappeared into the crowd around the table as well, promising cheerfully to bring back plates for everyone.

Melinda allowed one of her rare smiles to escape. "She'll need some seasoning but she could be very good in a couple of centuries. I think she wants to work in Miracles eventually."

"I know she does," Phil said with a smile. "She tells everyone whenever you get a couple of glasses of drink in her."

"You should go over there," Melinda said.

"I'll talk to her when she's free."

"That could take a while. Looks like she's made a lot of friends since she got here."

"I've got time."

"Make sure you don't waste any of it."

Before Phil could ask what she meant, Melinda had disappeared into the crowds and he couldn't see her. A minute later, Sitwell arrived at his side, somehow managing to balance three plates and several bottles of beer. He was probably breaking at least two laws of physics and Phil just hoped nobody noticed because that was the kind of thing Fury frowned on.

"Where did May go?" Sitwell asked.

"I think she had somewhere else she needed to be," Phil said.

"Guess that means we'll just have to eat her share of the bounty."

Phil lost track of time after that, too busy eating and talking to agents he hadn't seen much for the last few months. He didn't realise how long the party had been running until he looked around and noticed that there were less than half the people still here that there had been a while ago and a few of the divans were starting to look a little shabby around the edges.

Darcy was sprawling across a fainting couch with a happy, slightly glazed smile on her face. She looked up and grinned as Phil approached.

"Agent Coulson!" she said, with just a tiny hint of a slur in her words. "Phil! I did it!"

"Yes, you did," he said. "Congratulations."

"Guess that means you're not the boss anymore, boss man?"

"Not that I ever really was."

"You were totally the boss," Darcy said cheerfully. "Like, one hundred per cent boss-like. You rule."

"And you're drunk."

"Yup!"

"Did he tell you where you've been assigned?"

Darcy grinned. "I'm staying in Social Media Romance for a while. I mean, Director Fury said I'd be on it forever but he was exaggerating. Right?"

Phil sat on the end of the couch and loosened his tie a little. "He's exaggerating. The Social Media Team won't last forever, a lot of them don't. Courtly Love was disbanded centuries ago and we haven't needed a Pirate Romance team for at least a century."

"Love is forever, teams are temporary," Darcy said, waving a hand vaguely and nearly clipping a passing agent around the ear.

"Teams form and disband up here," Phil said. "The people don't go. We're probably more permanent than most matches."

"That's...a fucking depressing thought. You, boss, are a party pooper."

"I was trying to be comforting."

"Well, you suck ass at it."

Phil shrugged. It was probably a depressing thought for a young agent but sometimes he found it oddly comforting that certain things stayed the same up here.

"Have you been assigned your own cases yet?" he said.

It was a question designed to distract her, he told himself, and not because he wanted to stop thinking about how long he'd been a part of SHIELD. There weren't many agents who had been around the place for as long as he had.

Darcy snorted and plucked her tablet out of the air. "I've got five...fuck, make that ten cases already. Shit, looks like I'm going to spend the next week learning how to nudge people through Tumblr. Twitter was bad enough." 

"You'll be fine," Phil said. "Agents are never assigned more than they can handle."

"Really?"

"Really."

"And that's why they assigned Barton to you? You can handle him? Because I've got to say, boss, everyone around here talks about him like he's some kind of terrible jinx. Or maybe just pure evil sent to destroy love and matches and the fabric of the universe or something."

Phil cleared his throat awkwardly and hoped Darcy was too drunk to notice the heat he could feel in his face. "I can manage him. I've actually got a good feeling about the next few days."

"You've found someone for him?"

"I think so."

It was making something in his chest ache fiercely again just thinking about the idea, but Phil couldn't let that sway him. Barton didn't deserve to be one of those people who searched endlessly and never found the person they could stay with for the rest of their lives. No matter how many dangerous, insane stunts he pulled, Barton needed someone he could go home to who wouldn't freak out a few months in and break everything off. He needed someone who made him happy and could be there through all the bad parts of his life as well as the moments when everything was good and he was almost flying on the happy outcomes and adrenaline rush.

Phil just needed to make himself accept that he could never be that person, even though it was tearing him apart. An angel and a mortal couldn't match, he was sure of it, because it had never happened before. They were incompatible.

"I guess it's time for me to get sobered up and looking respectable," Darcy said reluctantly. "First day as a full agent, can't go looking hung-over and cruddy just because I'm hung-over and cruddy."

The place was definitely starting to lose its exotic beauty, the furniture returning to the usual break room couches, and the walls were beginning to close in. Almost everyone had emptied out now and Phil caught a flash of grey wings disappearing through the door as Sitwell left. Only a couple of older agents were still browsing the buffet table across the room, trying to pick out a few last morsels before they were replaced with doughnuts and bagels again.

Phil smiled encouragingly. "Good luck with your first day."

"Thanks. I might need it."

"You won't."

"Flatterer." Darcy grinned and sat up straight, already looking less tipsy than she had been a few minutes ago. "And good luck to you. I hope Barton matches to someone. We'll have a party when he does, right?"

"Definitely," Phil said. "The biggest party we've had up here for a long time."

"Awesome. Now, excuse me. I need to puke a couple of times and then I'll be ready to go."

Phil laughed as Darcy wobbled away to the food table. She picked up a wine pitcher and poured what looked like coffee into a huge chalice that immediately turned into a mug with a rude message on the side. A moment later the entire table seemed to shudder and return to its usual state, laden with breakfast pastries and urns filled with coffee. Darcy grinned and waved as she left the room, her dark green wings held proudly as a striped scarf appeared out of nowhere and wrapped around her neck and shoulders.

The break room now looked almost back to normal apart from a few cherry blossoms still floating in the air. Phil contemplated his surroundings for a while, trying to decide whether he wanted coffee enough to actually move or whether he'd just rest here where it was quiet.

After a while he felt his head nod forward and realised that he'd been on the verge of falling asleep. That definitely wasn't normal and Phil felt a surge of panic jolt his gut.

Agents didn't need sleep. He hadn't needed sleep since...since the times that were so fuzzy in his memories he could barely touch them. Sleep was a mortal thing, not an urge that angels had to satisfy.

Except, now that he thought about it, he'd been feeling tired and slipping into something that might have been sleep for weeks now. Not regularly, not really, and he hadn't been conscious of it until now because it usually only happened when he was down there in the mortal world. Down with Clint, who could see him and touch him and hadn't kissed him even though they both knew they'd wanted it.

His first instinct was to stand up and report himself straight to Fury. There had been so many things over the last few months that he'd pretended to ignore, pretended Fury must know and be fine with. The more he thought about doing it, though, the more nauseous and unhappy the idea made him. If he reported himself to Fury then he'd disappear from Clint's life completely with no explanation and he couldn't do that now. He needed to say goodbye. Clint deserved that much from him.

The last time he'd tried to disappear from Clint's life they had both been miserable and unsettled for the entire time. If he vanished without a word now then Clint would blame himself and probably ruin whatever chances he had at a match. Phil needed to explain, to reassure Clint that he wasn't doing this because of what they were feeling. He was leaving because there was something wrong with him. After he'd done that and made sure Clint understood, then he could go to Fury and confess everything. Fury would know what was wrong.

Decision made, Phil stood and straightened his tie before transporting down to the mortal world for what he suspected would the last time.


	7. Chapter 7

Clint's date was going surprisingly well, on the surface. He hadn't been on a date this good for a long time. Andy was funny, smart, and understood the weird lifestyle because he was an EMT. In just about every way possible he ticked all of Clint's boxes. Under normal circumstances he'd be back at Andy's place (or his, but Andy's was closer) with his tongue halfway down Andy's throat by now. There was enough of a zing of low-level physical attraction that Clint knew they would have skipped dessert and gone right to 'dessert' and Andy's eyes were speaking volumes about how much he was still hoping that might happen.

There was just the minor complication where Clint didn't want any of it. He wanted an angel with pretty blue eyes and a warm smile, and the buzz of attraction with Andy wasn't enough to get past that.

Not even for a guy who filled a suit really well and looked comfortable in one.

All Clint had thought when he'd seen Andy standing in front of the restaurant was how good Phil looked in his suits. That was definitely the wrong way to start a date off.

"I bet you have some interesting stories," Andy said, looking hopeful.

Clint shook himself out of his thoughts and refocused. "Most of them tend to involve violence, weirdness and things blowing up or burning down."

Andy smiled ruefully. "Yeah, I guess. I've been out in the aftermath of a few of the Avengers' battles. But that can't be all you do. You've got to have some hobbies or something else?"

Clint scraped up the last of his pasta sauce, savouring the flavour while he tried to find something to say. Shit, this was the stage where half his first dates went badly wrong and even if this one wasn't going great, he needed to make an effort.

"Mostly I work on new equipment and train," Clint said. "The Tower has a fu-amazing media library so I watch a lot of movies on my downtime."

He'd already picked up that Andy was the clean-speaking and clean-living type so Clint was trying to keep his language under control. It wasn't the easiest thing but he'd had a lot of practice with all the media interviews the Avengers seemed to attract so at least he wasn't scaring the guy off by swearing at him all the time.

"Movies are great," Andy said with a hint of desperation in his voice. "What's the last thing you watched?"

A waiter arrived at that moment to take away the dishes and hand out the dessert menus. Picking out something to eat that didn't accidentally send double entendres flying and then discussing movies--another thing they were surprisingly compatible over--occupied the remainder of the meal, to Clint's relief. He'd never been good at the first date banter concept and this date was turning out to be more difficult than any he'd been on for a long time. Everything he said seemed to come out stilted and weird and he was _trying_ he really was, but it just felt all wrong in every way.

They split the bill without even discussing it and there was a moment's hesitation when they got outside before Clint offered to walk Andy home. Andy smiled and agreed, looking relieved. The walk to his apartment was only a few blocks and it was the most relaxed part of the date so far, which was probably at least partially because they both knew it was nearly over and neither of them were attempting to drag along a dead conversation. Instead they walked in semi-comfortable silence and stopped in the shadows at the entrance to Andy's building.

"I guess this is goodnight then," Andy said cautiously.

"Yeah," Clint said.

Andy paused for a beat before saying, "OK, I know this thing is probably a bust but...should we kiss or something? Just to make sure?"

"It can't hurt, I guess," Clint said.

"I like your optimism," Andy said dryly.

Clint shrugged apologetically and Andy gave him a small smile before leaning in and brushing his lips over the corner of Clint's mouth. It wasn't a bad kiss, but it felt weirdly awkward. Almost like kissing Natasha or Tony. Andy started to withdraw and Clint darted in to press their lips together more firmly, hoping that maybe the weird would melt away and something would click and ignite. It was the kind of thing that happened in films and there was still a small part of Clint that hoped this could work out.

After all, on paper Andy ticked every box he had and it wasn't often he met someone who did that.

Nothing clicked, nothing ignited, even though Andy did his best to help Clint make the kiss work and his technique was flawless. They tried for a couple of minutes and all Clint felt when they parted was a vague sense of disappointment and an urge to steal Natasha's lip balm.

"This isn't working, is it?" Andy said.

Clint shook his head. "Yeah, sorry. I know it's a total cliché but it's really not you. It's me."

"You're right, it's a cliché." The look of understanding in Andy's eyes made Clint squirm guiltily. "Don't worry, I've been there, I know how it goes."

Clint doubted that, but he couldn't exactly tell Andy that being in love with an angel was a unique experience.

"Sorry, man," he said instead. "Thanks for a good night?"

"The food was good even if the rest of it didn't really work out," Andy said.

"Definitely."

"Goodnight, then."

"Yeah, goodnight."

Clint waited until the building door closed behind Andy before turned on his heel and hurrying away. He tried not to call it running from the scene of the crime, but in his head it felt a lot like that.

Walking back to Stark Tower took nearly an hour and his dress shoes weren't really designed for that kind of distance, but Clint didn't want to take a cab or get pressed into the crush of a subway train. He wanted the fresh air to clear his head and the exercise to release all those brain chemicals that would make him feel less like a total shit. It didn't work, and he had to slow down to a gentle stroll a couple of blocks before he got to the Tower so he wouldn't look sweaty and breathless, just in case someone caught him arriving.

Natasha and Bruce, at least, had worked out that he was going on a date and he wasn't sure he wanted to endure the teasing or the sympathy if he got home looking worn out without actually having any reason for it apart from a long walk.

Nobody was lurking in the foyer and he made it to the elevator and up to his floor without anyone noticing his arrival apart from Jarvis. He shrugged out of his jacket and folded it over his arm as he crossed the small lobby to his door and it took him a moment of fumbling in his pockets to find his key.

The apartment was only lit by one lamp in the corner when he got in. A flash of movement caught Clint's eye, the sense of a familiar dark shape moving in the shadows near the sofa. He didn't need to see the details to know that it would be Phil standing there, watching him with those eyes that kept following him in dreams. Phil had been in the corners of his life for months and Clint acknowledged without any sense of surprise that the part of the date he'd been looking forward to, had been seeing Phil after it and talking it through with him.

A surge of need and want flooded Clint's body and before he could think about the consequences, or any of the hundreds of reasons why he shouldn't, he was walking across the room, grabbing Phil's lapels, and pulling him into a kiss.

He hadn't given himself time to worry that Phil wouldn't want him, but he didn't have a chance to panic that he'd fucked everything up. Hands clamped onto the sides of his face to keep him there and Phil kissed him with so much force Clint rocked back a step.

Teeth clashed and noses bumped and Clint heard a breathy moan that he realised a moment later had been his. He licked at Phil's lips and Phil immediately opened for him so that Clint could taste coffee and something faintly spicy that had to be just pure Phil in his mouth. Phil's hands tightened for a moment, holding him firmly in place so that Phil could suck carefully on his tongue and make him groan again.

It was everything Clint had dreamed about and so much more. He half expected Phil to melt away as he had done after their aborted kiss, but Phil stayed real and solid in his arms. Clint slipped his hands under Phil's jacket so that he could feel the warmth and strength hidden under the thin fabric of his shirt. He wanted to do more, so much more, but at that moment, the kiss and the intensity of it was as much as he could handle.

This was what had been missing from the kiss with Andy, all the fire and desperation that burned in Clint's gut and made him kiss greedily just in case this was the only chance he ever got.

Phil's hands slid slowly away from Clint's face, down his neck and body to settle on his hips, and the kiss gentled, turning into a slow exploration that did nothing to cool the heat in Clint's body. It allowed his brain to start working, though, and after a long minute he slowly drew back without releasing Phil from his arms. Phil made a small sound of complaint in the back of his throat before opening his eyes and Clint sucked in a breath when he saw the expression there.

"Shit, Phil, are we in trouble now?" he asked without thinking.

"Probably," Phil said, his voice sounding deeper and rougher than normal.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. If you want to--"

Phil's hands tightened on his hips, holding him in place even though Clint knew he didn't need to. Clint couldn't move away while Phil was still looking at him with so much fierceness he thought he might drown in it.

"I want you," Phil said. "I was going to...that's not important anymore. I know that I shouldn't want you, I know this can't end well, but I'm tired of fighting it and I can't pretend anymore that I don't want you."

The words made Clint's breath catch in his throat. He knew there were a hundred things he wanted to say but they all seemed to get stuck in a lump somewhere just behind his breast bone. They had been dancing at the edge of this for too long and now all he could think about was how afraid he was that it would have to end before he'd had more than a brief taste of what they could be together. Speech failed him so he ducked in for another kiss and tried to put everything he was feeling into it, using his body to communicate what he couldn't say.

Warm air caressed his cheek as Phil sighed into the kiss and Clint flattened his hands on Phil's lower back, drawing him closer so that they were pressed tight together. Phil's fingers clutched convulsively on his hips but then he seemed to make a conscious effort to loosen them, maybe afraid to leave marks even though, right now, Clint wouldn't have minded that at all.

He made an approving noise when he felt Phil's hand slide around from his hip and onto his waist but it hesitated there. Clint grinned against Phil's mouth, feeling absurdly fond of the way Phil seemed to be waiting for him to signal that doing anything else was alright. It seemed like an unnecessary formality after the intensity of their first kiss but the gesture was so awkwardly respectful he couldn't help being charmed.

"It's fine to put your hand on my ass," Clint said. "I'm pretty sure that we're going to do a lot worse before morning."

"We are?"

"Or we can just make out. I'm good with that, too. I'm just..." Clint made himself lean back a few inches so he could see Phil's eyes, even though he hated being that far away from his lips. "We're both going to be in a fuckload of trouble when someone notices this. You're what you are, I'm what I am. If this is all we get then making out is great, but I kind of want everything with you. I want those memories to hold onto."

He felt the breath suddenly leaving Phil's lungs and he saw the bright spots of colour that rose on Phil's cheeks. It was a strangely intoxicating feeling to know that he was doing this, having this kind of effect on someone who must have seen and heard so much over his long life.

"You make a good argument," Phil said, sounding slightly breathless.

Clint grinned and very deliberately lifted Phil's hand to place it firmly on his ass, holding it there until Phil's fingers squeezed lightly.

"I try," he said.

A warm, dry smile twitched at the corners of Phil's mouth. "You're very trying."

Clint smirked and didn't even try to pretend he hadn't deliberately set that line up. It had been worth it just to lighten the atmosphere slightly before everything got so overwhelming that he either burned up from the heat of it or had some kind of embarrassing emotional collapse at the weight of knowing this was it, he'd probably never see Phil again after tonight.

There seemed to be no sense in even pretending that what they were contemplating was something they could get away with and not feel the consequences. Someone might be pretending not to see everything they'd done so far, but that had only been some conversations that barely went over the line and one not-kiss. Admittedly, angels weren't usually supposed to talk to mortals--not even ones from SHIELD--but that was all tame stuff.

Even the first kiss might have been something Phil's higher power could overlook if necessary.

What they were contemplating and trying not to say out loud was much more and Clint was absolutely certain there had to be repercussions from having sex with an angel. The thought was both terrifying and oddly calming all at once. They'd be doing something that would mean the end of their time together, but Clint hoped the memories would be worth it. Phil would have been moving on to a new client soon anyway no matter what they did--why not give in just this one time so they both had something good to hold onto after?

It wasn't like Clint was actually going to find anyone else, anyway, not while he still had the hope of Phil lurking in the back of his mind.

"I guess your record is getting trashed tonight," Clint said as he remembered some of their conversations.

"My record?"

"Your one hundred per cent match record," Clint said. "Guess we're going to break that into pieces if we do this."

"I knew that record was going to burn the moment I caught your file."

Clint couldn't decide whether he should feel offended or vaguely proud of that. He suspected most people wouldn't take it as a compliment but he wasn't most people.

"You fall off things," Phil continued. "You never wear any kind of safety gear and you're always in the middle of the worst of everything. You broke multiple agents and you'd been determinedly celibate for eighteen months when we first met. I knew my odds weren't great."

"Hey, I-"

But Clint's attempt to protest was cut off by Phil's mouth on his, teasing softly at his lips, and Clint definitely wasn't going to continue an argument when they could be kissing. This time it was Phil's tongue licking at the seam of his lips, asking for entry, and Clint opened eagerly and heard himself whimper quietly when Phil's tongue swept in. There was still a hesitancy to it, as though Phil wasn't sure of his welcome, and Clint wondered what had happened in his past that could have made him so uncertain. The thought of someone rejecting Phil made his heart ache for him.

Clint pushed the thought away before it could take hold and concentrated on making sure Phil didn't have any doubts about him. He kissed with all the longing he'd been suppressing for so long and hummed approvingly as Phil's movements became surer and his touches became firmer.

It had been a long time since Clint had wanted anyone this much. Sometimes Clint wondered whether he'd ever wanted someone _this_ much because he couldn't remember feeling so much urgency before. He wanted to touch Phil everywhere, to learn the shape of his body with his lips and hands, and feel Phil's hands on him as well. Clint pulled restlessly at Phil's shirt, tugging it free of his pants so he could get his hands under and feel the warm skin there. He heard Phil's surprised grunt when he finally made contact but Phil didn't break the kiss so Clint figured it was a good kind of surprise.

Phil's skin was smoother and warmer than he'd expected and he couldn't resist tugging harder at the shirt, pushing it up so he could get more skin and more sensation. He traced the hard knobs of bone in Phil's spine and the firm muscles that rippled and twitched under his fingers. As he nibbled and sucked at Phil's lower lip, drawing out a soft groan, he slid his hands higher to feel more skin and then something else.

Soft feathers, starting at the base of Phil's ribs with tiny tufts and growing thicker as the trail led up to the place where his wings sprouted from his shoulder blades. Clint had almost forgotten about them in the heat of the moment.

He tore his mouth away from their kiss and hooked his chin over Phil's shoulder so he could look down at the place where Phil's wings emerged from his jacket. Clint could feel the downy feathers at the base and Phil shivered against him as he buried his fingers there in that warm, soft mass.

Even Phil's wings twitched as Clint stroked the feathers and he couldn't resist scratching his nails lightly so he could see Phil's wings flare out suddenly and watch the bump moving under Phil's jacket where he knew his hands were. Clint couldn't get his head around how it all worked because he was right there, he could see that there were no seams or fastenings where the wings came through the fabric, and yet there they were.

"How do you get your clothes on over those?" Clint asked, temporarily distracted from the heat pounding through his body by the puzzle of Phil's wings. "And how do I get them off?"

He pulled back so that he could see Phil's face, which now had a sheepish and slightly confused expression wrinkling his forehead. Clint tried not to find it adorable and failed.

"I usually don't," Phil said with a shrug. "It's not something that really comes up."

"You sleep in your suits?"

"I don't sleep. Agents shouldn't need to."

"So you just...wear the suits all the time? Never changing?"

"Something like that," Phil said.

Clint frowned. "So, not that I don't love your suit, but that could be a problem if I can't actually take it off you. The kind of stuff I was hoping to do with you usually goes better if both of us are naked."

A mischievous smile danced on Phil's lips and suddenly he was pulling back, out of Clint's arms, which wasn't what Clint wanted at all. He tried to grab at Phil but he moved away easily. A moment later, Clint stopped caring about reaching for Phil because this...this was so much better.

The fabric of Phil's jacket and shirt seemed to slowly melt away into thin air and Clint understood why there hadn't been any seams. If Phil could manipulate his own clothes with just a thought then of course he didn't need awkward fasteners or zips to accommodate the wings. He swallowed hard as Phil's chest and arms slowly appeared through the mist of fading fabric, and then he almost choked as the rest of Phil's clothes--belt, pants, shoes, everything--followed and left Phil standing naked in the middle of his apartment.

"Holy shit," Clint said softly.

The dim light revealed firmly muscled torso and thighs with just the right distribution of hair over pale skin. Clint wondered what Phil would look like spread out on a bed with the early morning sun streaming over him and his mouth went dry at the mental image.

Spots of bright colour appeared on Phil's cheeks as Clint's eyes roved everywhere, taking it all in wordlessly for longer than was probably necessary but he couldn't look away. He wanted to burn this moment into his brain so he'd never forget. Phil's nakedness left Clint in no doubt about how much he was wanted and he unconsciously licked his lips as he stared at the evidence between Phil's legs.

A naked turned on angel wasn't something he'd ever expected to see and he couldn't get enough of it.

Phil made a quiet sound, just a small worried hum, and Clint looked up quickly, feeling slightly guilty at being caught staring even though Phil had put himself on display with that trick. There was uncertainty again in Phil's eyes, as though he was actually worried that Clint wouldn't want him anymore.

"Shit, Phil, you're perfect," Clint said and almost bit his tongue before he said anything sappier.

"Oh," Phil said.

"Do you mind if I--?" Clint said, gesturing vaguely and hoping Phil understood.

"Go ahead," Phil said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Clint rolled his eyes and stepped around Phil so he could see his back, where his wings emerged from a thick mass of soft downy feathers that covered his shoulder blades and ribs. The feathers were dark grey at the base of his wings, where the glossier black feathers began, and they graduated into paler shades further out until the ones at the edges were a pale cream that was almost white. Clint's fingers itched to feel them again and he was starting to reach out when he paused.

"Can I touch them?" he asked.

He couldn't see Phil's face but he could hear the surprised pleasure in his voice when he said, "Yes, please."

Clint stepped closer and placed a dry kiss on the back of Phil's neck, slightly above the place where the feathers stopped. Phil gasped and Clint did it again, just to hear that sound, before straightening up and carefully burying his fingers in the feathers at the base of Phil's wings. They were as soft and warm as before, tickling against his palms, and he admired the contrast of his tanned skin in the grey and cream for a long moment.

Phil's wings were warm and strong where they rose from his body and they almost seemed to thrum with power when Clint touched them. His wingtips twitched and Clint stroked up and along the top edge of both wings, which made Phil shiver and stretch his wings out. Clint stroked again and again, smiling as Phil almost seemed to purr under the attention and his wings shifted restlessly in the air.

"Does that feel good?" he asked, leaning in to whisper the words into Phil's ear.

"Y-yes," Phil stuttered.

Clint placed a kiss under Phil's ear, pressing briefly against his back so Phil could feel the fabric of his shirt and pants against his naked skin. The way Phil tilted his head and sighed told Clint that felt good and Clint grinned against his neck. He kissed again and sucked lightly at the skin, enjoying the feel of Phil's response as he pushed back against Clint's body, almost as much as he enjoyed tasting and marking Phil.

When he dropped his hands from Phil's wings to rest them on Phil's hips, a sudden exhalation seemed to shudder through Phil's body. Clint deliberately splayed his fingers so he was covering as much bare flesh as possible without touching the one place Phil needed him. It would be so easy to just reach around and bring Phil off right here and now but Clint wanted to be able to see Phil's face when that happened.

He pressed his lips to the junction where Phil's neck and shoulder met before kissing lower, at the edge of his feathers, and nipping lightly at the skin with his teeth.

Something hit him in the side of the head and he staggered, losing his grip on Phil, even as the draught in the air told him what had probably happened.

Phil spun around, a suggestion of grey mist appearing around his waist as he gripped Clint's arms and looked guilty.

"Sorry," he said, looking unhappy as the mist started to spread upward around his chest. "I didn't meant to--"

"Knock me flying with your wings?" Clint said ruefully, rubbing his ear where he'd take the worst of the blow. "Yeah, I kind of figured that wasn't your plan."

Phil's lips thinned into an unhappy frown. "I usually have much better control than that."

"I made you lose control of your wings?" Clint said with a grin. "Cool."

"Not cool," Phil said. "Not cool at all. I don't know what I'm doing with most of this, but my wings, I know them and I know what I'm doing with them."

Clint blinked. "You don't know what you're doing? Phil, when you said it's been a long time...do you remember the last time you did this?"

Phil hesitated before quietly saying, "No? And I didn't have wings the last time either. I think."

"That's-" Clint swallowed. "OK, wow, no pressure then. I'm fucking an angel who literally can't remember the last time he had sex and has wings that could knock me out if we're not careful, wings he probably didn't have the last time he fucked anyone. I'm not intimidated, really. Shit."

The mist solidified into a slightly transparent simulation of Phil's suit, not looking entirely real yet but much more real than Clint wanted to see. He liked naked Phil much better.

It was that thought that spurred him into adding, "Doesn't mean I don't want to do this, though. So stop doing that--" he waved his hand at the mostly reformed suit "--and get yourself naked again so we can figure this out."

The startled look Phil shot him made Clint grin and his grin widened as the suit disappeared much faster than it had the first time.

"Better," he said, pulling Phil into a kiss before he could start getting nervous again.

Phil didn't hesitate this time before putting a hand firmly on Clint's ass and burying the other hand in Clint's hair to hold him close. Clint licked his way into Phil's mouth again and almost crowed at the way Phil's hand tightened in his hair. There was so much bare skin for Clint to touch that for a moment he was almost overwhelmed but he followed Phil's lead and grabbed a handful of firm ass to pull Phil's hips against his.

The thick hardness that bumped against him was reassurance that Phil's momentary guilt and worry had been swept aside by more urgent concerns. Clint ground against him for a moment and Phil made a quietly strangled noise.

Clint tore out of the kiss reluctantly and allowed his lips to brush Phil's cheek as he said, "Want to move this to the bedroom?"

"Do we have to?"

"Unless you want your first orgasm for several centuries to happen on the floor, we should probably move."

Phil seemed to consider it carefully before nodding. "The bed does sound more comfortable. And you seem overdressed for this."

"You almost sound like an expert."

Phil shot him a dirty look and deliberately stepped back, arching an eyebrow. Half of Clint's higher brain functions abruptly turned off at the combination of the expression, the nakedness, and the dark bulk of wings rising behind him. That was just unfair, but then Phil hooked a finger into Clint's waistband and tugged and he was gone.

He followed easily as Phil led the way to the bedroom, wondering vaguely when he lost control of the situation before deciding that didn't matter. What mattered that Phil pushed him up against a wall as soon as they were in the bedroom and kissed him until he couldn't breathe. Those beautiful, amazing wings curved up and around, the tips brushing his thighs and creating a darkened cocoon where they kissed for what felt like forever.

Clint's head hit the wall with a dull thunk when Phil ducked to kiss and lick his throat and he helped by reaching up to undo the top buttons on his shirt. Phil made an approving sound and sucked hard just below his collar line. Clint hoped that would leave a mark he'd see for days after, something to reassure himself that this had been real even if Phil had to disappear.

He pushed away from the wall eventually so Phil could tug his shirt down his arms and throw it aside. Phil's wings brushed his arms briefly, feathers raising shivers in their wake, before the wings settled smoothly along Phil's back again. The light in the bedroom was brighter than it had been in the living area without being harsh but there wasn't time to stand back and worship Phil's body with his eyes again.

Phil caught his lips in another kiss and Clint felt fingers at his belt, tugging it free and unfastening his pants. He wrapped his arms loosely around Phil's neck and groaned as he felt Phil's hand thrust down the back of his pants to knead and grip his ass.

"Thought you said you couldn't remember how to do this?" Clint said, his voice sounding throaty and gasping. "That's...yeah, don't stop doing that."

"I said I couldn't remember the last time I did this," Phil said. "I am a SHIELD agent. We wouldn't be much good at our jobs if we didn't at least know the theory of how this works."

Clint leaned back slightly and grinned. "Your practical application of theory is excellent so far, Agent Coulson."

"And you're very smug right now," Phil said.

"I'm going to be even worse later. Can't wait to see how far your theoretical knowledge goes."

"You're incorrigible."

"I'm also incredibly turned on so can you please take my pants off now?"

Phil chuckled, low and dirty, and Clint decided that was probably the hottest sound he'd ever heard. He revised his opinion a moment later when Phil pushed down his pants and underwear and made another one of those soft strangled sounds. That was the hottest thing he'd ever heard.

It took a minute to untangle his feet from the clothes and pull off his shoes and socks, but then Phil was pushing him down onto the bed and Clint landed with a bounce. He looked up and wondered whether the expression on Phil's face was anything like the expression he'd worn earlier when he'd finally seen Phil naked. If was, then it was a miracle Phil hadn't burst into flames right there. Clint felt like he might at any minute. His skin tingled and warmed everywhere Phil's gaze fell on him and he wanted to arch his back and bask in the moment but he couldn't move. He could barely even breathe.

He felt pinned by that look and the heavy weight of desire in the air.

Eventually Clint forced himself to move, just so he could pull air into his lungs before he suffocated. He held out a hand and smiled when Phil took it and allowed himself to be pulled down to the bed. It felt so right to have Phil there, kneeling between his legs and slowly leaning over for another kiss.

One kiss turned into two and then three, Phil holding himself up with his hands on the bed on either side of Clint's head so the only place they were touching was their lips. Clint tried to be patient but he needed to feel Phil, all of him, so he wrapped his arms carefully around Phil's shoulders and pulled. Phil collapsed onto him immediately and Clint groaned into the kiss as Phil's weight settled on him and every inch of Phil's chest and hips touched his.

Their hard lengths met without clothing between them for the first time and Clint involuntarily lifted his hips, seeking more of that heat. It wasn't enough and he wrapped his leg around Phil's thighs, pushing against him and feeling Phil gasp into his mouth.

"I'd forgotten how this felt," Phil said.

"It's good?"

"It's..." Phil trailed away, looking lost for words again. "It's good."

"It can get better."

Clint rolled his hips again, rutting up against Phil's erection.

"Fuck," Phil gasped and Clint nearly swallowed his tongue because, holy crap, the sound of Phil swearing was almost enough to make him lose the tattered remains of his control.

"What do you want?" Clint asked when he caught his breath again. "First time in centuries, you've got to have a laundry list. Fuck me? Or we can do it the other way? Or I could suck you off, that's always fun."

Phil swore again, a whole series of expletives in languages Clint didn't even recognise but the tone was enough to tell him the words were probably filthy. He clutched urgently at Phil's shoulders and willed himself not to let his hips move or everything would be over far too soon.

"Your hands," Phil said eventually. "I want you in me later, but I don't think I'm going to last much longer and I need you to touch me. So, your hands this time."

"Good choice," Clint said, feeling slightly dazed by the wave of lust that had shot through his body at Phil's words. "Really great choice right now. Fucking later, handjob now."

He tried to nudge Phil onto his side but it was awkward because of his wings, which seemed to bend uncomfortably when he tried to roll over.

"You really don't lie down much, do you?" Clint said.

"Agents don't sleep," Phil said. "Usually."

Clint had to kiss him for that. He caught Phil's lower lip between his teeth, pulling on it gently, and managed to get a hand between their bodies when Phil lifted his hips slightly. The angle was awkward but he got his hand mostly around both of their cocks and he groaned at the contrasting feel of his own rough skin and Phil's hot smooth length surrounding him.

Phil kissed him, sloppy and needy, as he began stroking in a steady, fast rhythm. Soft grunts and moans filled the air, mostly his but not entirely, and Clint tried to keep up the kiss at the same time but it was too much. He pressed their foreheads together and their gazes locked as heat built and spread through Clint's thighs and belly. He could feel his climax building and there was a glazed look in Phil's eyes as sensation started to overwhelm him.

It was intoxicating but he was determined to send Phil over first so he could watch it in his face and memorise it.

Phil groaned, low and urgent, and then he was pulsing in Clint's hand and the wide-eyed pleasure and surprise were better than Clint had ever imagined. His hand faltered for a moment as Phil's hips stuttered against him but he was too close to his own orgasm to stop now. Two more strokes, his hand now wet and slippery, and then he bit his lip as he came and came and got lost in the white heat of it.

A long time later--or maybe only a minute, it was difficult to tell because time seemed to be moving oddly--Clint opened his eyes and carefully pulled his hand free to wipe it on the covers. His limbs felt warm and floppy and he was still humming and tingling with satiation.

Phil was looking at him with a soft expression and Clint stretched up for a kiss.

"I don't remember sex being this messy," Phil said when they parted.

"The best sex usually is," Clint said, completely failing not to sound smug.

He felt sticky, and he knew they'd probably regret it if they didn't get cleaned up, but Phil showed no sign of wanting to move and Clint wasn't sure he could yet. So he stayed where he was and stroked a hand gently up and down Phil's back, trailing his fingers over smooth skin and soft feathers with a feeling of warm contentment.

"I'm not going to regret this," Phil said, so quietly Clint almost didn't hear it. "No matter what else happens, this was worth it."

"One quick handjob?" Clint said, refusing to let the ache in his chest spread. "Is that all you wanted? Give me an hour and I'll do better."

"I'll hold you to that," Phil said with a soft smile.

"You do that." Clint yawned and winced apologetically. "Sorry, but here's the other thing you might have forgotten about sex. I really need a nap now. You probably will too."

"I don't nap," Phil said, but a yawn turned that declaration into a lie.

Clint grinned sleepily. "Yeah, I think this time you do. I guess even ang-ah, agents, aren't immune to the old post-coital nap."

"I'm definitely immune," Phil said but his eyes were drifting closed and his head hit Clint's shoulder a moment later.

Clint patted his ass fondly and followed him into sleep.

***

The bedroom was filled again with quiet groans and Clint thrust up, biting his lip hard when the heat and tightness surrounding his cock almost sent him over the edge too soon. He was determined to make this good for Phil and going off like a rocket before Phil even got used to this, never mind got to come, wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind. It just felt so good and the sight of Phil, his eyes closed and his wings flaring out for balance as he finally found the perfect angle, was almost too much for his senses.

Finding a good position with the wings getting in the way had been much more difficult than Clint could have imagined. They made it uncomfortable for Phil to lie on his back and Clint had been knocked sprawling when they'd tried it with Phil on his stomach.

Phil straddling his hips, sinking down onto his cock slowly and carefully, had been the only thing that worked and Phil had been very, very insistent on doing this. Clint wasn't sure exactly why he'd need it so much when it might have been easier to switch, but he wasn't going to deny Phil anything tonight. And right now, watching Phil above him, it seemed like the best idea he'd ever had.

Clint swept his hands up Phil's thighs to grip his hips, not holding him still but just needing something to hold onto for a minute to slow things down.

Phil opened his eyes and smiled, fierce and hot. "I never really got why people would do such stupid things for sex. I think that I get it now."

"You've been a matchmaking angel for at least seven centuries and you didn't understand the appeal of sex before?" Clint said, smirking.

The brief scowl he got for the 'A' word faded into a more thoughtful look. "I understood the appeal of sex. I just couldn't see why people would take some of the risks they took for it. Love I understand, sex isn't something I remembered being worth the pain it's sometimes caused."

The thoughtful expression on Phil's face didn't falter even as he slowly rose up on his knees and sank down again and Clint revised his opinion, for the third time in one night, on what the hottest thing he'd ever seen was. Phil Coulson, agent of SHIELD, fucking himself on Clint's dick with that curious and considering expression was absolutely the hottest thing ever.

"Fuck, Phil," Clint gasped as his hips twitched up involuntarily and pushed slightly further into Phil's tight heat.

"Yes, you're doing that very well thank you," Phil said with a small smile.

Clint gaped up at him for a moment, completely undone. "Did you just make a sex joke? In the middle of all this, you made an actual joke?"

"I couldn't resist."

"That's just--" Clint spluttered to a halt and narrowed his eyes. "You're trying to distract me, aren't you?"

"Why would I want you to stop asking me difficult questions when I'm trying to make you fuck me?"

Clint's reply turned into a strangled moan as Phil deliberately lifted on his knees and slammed down in a swift movement that buried Clint deeper than ever. The soft grunt he made was filthy and he did it all without looking away from Clint's face or changing his expression. The small smile was infuriating, a challenge, and Clint curled upward and hooked a hand behind Phil's neck so he could pull him into a clumsy kiss.

The change in position almost made him slip out of Phil, which hadn't actually been his plan, and the grumbling noise Phil made strongly indicated Phil wasn't happy about that either. He nipped Phil's lip and allowed Phil to push him down onto the bed again, gasping as Phil settled back into position with slightly more speed than he'd expected.

Turns out, angels are fast learners. Clint wondered how much of it was centuries of being around people having creative sex and how much was natural talent.

He didn't realise he'd asked the question out loud until Phil said, "Practical application of theory, remember?"

"So you haven't been watching when your clients did this?"

"I've always believed people need some privacy for this part of their relationships."

"You're a very considerate man," Clint said approvingly. "You've also studied those theories very carefully, I can tell."

"Not really." Phil smiled that irritating little smile again. "Do you always talk this much during sex?"

"There's nothing in my file about that?"

"I'm not the only agent who believes in discretion," Phil said. "Are you planning to make me wait all night or are you actually going to get started down there?"

"You're a bossy bottom, aren't you?"

"You seem to be enjoying it."

Just for that, Clint rolled his hips up and grinned as Phil's smile wobbled and he bit his lip.

"That what you were after?" Clint asked.

"Yes, I think so," Phil said, sounding slightly breathless.

Finding a rhythm together took a couple of false starts and then Clint was thrusting up as Phil was sinking down and it was all just right. Sweat glistened on Phil's face and arms and Clint wanted to lean up and lick it away but they were moving together, finally, and he couldn't bear to stop. He settled for reaching up to slide his hands up and over Phil's chest, relishing the feel of the hair there against his palms.

Phil made a surprised sound when Clint's thumb brushed over his nipple and Clint promised himself they'd return to that later if they were able to. Now the pleasure was building, curling around his gut and pulling up from the soles of his feet and he really wanted Phil to come before he did. So he wrapped a hand around Phil's cock and was rewarded with another surprised sound and Phil's eyes fluttering shut as though he needed to block out sight to concentrate on his own pleasure.

The sight of Phi biting his lip, all the tendons in his neck standing out as he threw his head back and lost himself in the feeling, sent more heat flooding through Clint's body. He let Phil dictate the rhythm and it was fast and furious, until suddenly Phil ground down hard and clenched around him, letting out a low groan as he came.

Clint froze, holding off his climax with a level of willpower he didn't even know he had, until Phil opened dazed eyes and nodded. It only took one more thrust and then he was rushing into an orgasm more intense than he could remember experiencing before. It seemed to be drawn out of every fibre of his body and he was lost in it.

He came back to himself as Phil toppled forward and he slipped out of Phil's heat with a wet noise that sounded loud and filthy in the silent room. Phil was still breathing hard and there was another sticky mess between them that Clint was sure they were going to regret later. But he couldn't resist rubbing a hand over the damp skin of Phil's arm and lower back and chuckling tiredly.

"What's so funny?" Phil asked, sounding sleepy.

"Can agents shower?" Clint asked. "You're sweaty and disgusting. We both are. Will your feathers get waterlogged if we try it?"

Phil lifted his head from where he'd been resting it on Clint's chest and their eyes met. Clint swallowed as he read all the emotion in those blue eyes, all the things they'd been deliberately avoiding saying but couldn't pretend they weren't feeling.

"We don't normally need to shower," Phil said with forced lightness. "Sweat and dirt don't really happen to us. Not if we don't want them to, anyway."

"You have an opt-out option on all the messier parts of life?"

"You could say we have an opt-out option on most of reality, normally," Phil said thoughtfully.

"Sounds handy."

"It can be."

"Guess you're opting out of this part of reality right now."

"Something like that."

Phil's expression was serious for a moment and Clint wondered whether he'd ever be able to see that thoughtful expression without associating it with the sight of Phil above him, impaled on his cock and looking curious about all the new sensations. He was too wrung out to do anything about the wave of lust that surged through him, but Phil looked slightly startled and Clint realised he'd probably felt his cock's half-hearted twitch against his hip because of their position.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to be ready for another round for a while," Clint said. "At least a few hours, anyway. Give me three. Maybe four."

"Are you afraid that I'll disappear?" Phil asked.

"A little bit?" Clint said, tightening his arm around Phil's waist. "I know you'll go soon, I just...I don't want you to go yet. We haven't had enough time yet."

"I'll stay for as long as I can, I promise," Phil said.

The kiss they shared was slow and deep and so sweet Clint's toes curled. He'd always thought that was a cliché from a book but in that moment all the clichés seemed like perfectly reasonable things and this kiss was making his toes curl and his heart ache all at once. He lifted his hand from Phil's arm and buried it in Phil's hair, holding him in place so they could plunder each other's mouths until they were both breathing hard again.

"How long do you think we've got?" Clint said when they separated.

"I really don't know," Phil said.

"Guess we'll just stay here until they decide to take you back, then."

"That sounds good to me."

Phil dropped his head back to rest on Clint's shoulder and they lay like that for a little while until Clint's arm started to fall asleep. He poked Phil in the side until Phil made a soft irritated sound and shifted to sprawl against his side, mostly on his stomach with one leg thrown over Clint's thighs. Clint turned into Phil slightly and contemplated trying to pull a blanket up as the sweat started to dry on his skin and send a shiver through him. Phil must have felt him shiver, though, because he curled a wing up and over them and Clint was surprised by just how warm he felt, sheltered by Phil and his glossy black feathers.

"Shower later," Clint said sleepily. "Napping now."

"I don't nap," Phil slurred grumpily.

Clint smiled and kissed his cheek before settling down again and slipping into sleep.

***

The pale golden light of dawn was streaming in through the open windows and Phil propped his head on his hand so he could watch as it gradually crept up Clint's body. All that smooth, beautiful expanse of skin almost seemed to glow in the sun and Phil wanted to reach out and sweep his hand down Clint's back just to feel it, but he didn't want to wake him.

Clint had sprawled on his stomach in his sleep, one leg partially drawn up at an angle that looked uncomfortable, but he'd been lying like that for over an hour so it couldn't feel too bad. The room was warm and he'd partially rolled away from the cover of Phil's wing, which suited Phil perfectly because he wanted to look.

He wanted to memorise this moment and keep it in the front of his mind as a barrier against whatever SHIELD did to him when he was called back. There was no sense pretending that it wasn't going to happen, that they'd just forget about him and let him stay down here with Clint forever. It was just a matter of time.

Phil knew he was supposed to regret all of this, every moment from long before the kiss. He'd broken every unspoken rule there was by falling for his mortal and he'd been so close to getting away with it, so close to letting Clint go on with his life and not acting on anything he'd been feeling. In another day, Fury would have known everything and sent him somewhere to be fixed without anyone being hurt. Then Clint had kissed him and all the feelings he'd been trying to repress for so long had swept him away. How could he carry on pretending that he could give Clint up when they both felt so much for each other?

There was nothing in the manuals about what happened to an agent who broke the rules this spectacularly but Phil was certain that losing his wings would be the least of his problems. The only hope he had left was that they wouldn't take his memories of the last few hours and that was why he'd been so determined to create as many as he could.

Clint made a soft sound in his sleep and reached out, feeling around until his hand hit Phil's bare shoulder. He smiled and Phil felt his chest tighten at the sweetly happy look on Clint's face. He wasn't going to be able to leave this voluntarily. They'd have to drag him back to the Hub, and Phil had no doubt that Fury had the power to do exactly that. He would stay here to the bitter end, though, because he needed all the time he could get.

It couldn't be much longer now. There was something wrong, something terribly wrong with him, and Phil knew deep down that it was connected to everything he'd been doing since the day he first spoke to Clint. He'd slept a couple of times during the night, the sleepiness that Clint had cheerfully dismissed as normal catching up to him even though agents didn't normally sleep.

And more than that, he was becoming too solid. Too real. He'd never had to think about how his wings interacted with material objects in the mortal world because he could chose to ignore the rules of reality while he was here.

Phil pressed on the mattress beneath him with his free hand and it stubbornly remained completely solid, not even a tiny bit of give in its realness.

The world's unexpected refusal to meld around him had almost put a limit on what they could do together, but Clint was creative and flexible and Phil had never felt so thankful that someone had made sure Clint's sexual education wasn't limited by his lack of teenaged experience. He made a mental note to check the file and send the agent who'd arranged it a fruit basket, and then he had to fight down a wry laugh as he realised what a futile thought that was.

He wouldn't be contacting any agents again or checking any files.

He didn't regret any of it, though. Not even the slight aches he shouldn't be feeling or the sensation of being sticky and gritty that he couldn't just think away. The quick wash he'd taken while Clint showered a couple of hours ago had felt strange and he'd accidentally napped again when they collapsed on the bed.

Phil wondered for a moment whether he'd be able to think his suit back and reluctantly admitted to himself that he probably wouldn't be able to. There was no sense worrying about that now, though. He'd worry about it later.

Clint made another quiet grumbly sound and his eyes slowly opened. His smile was another of those things Phil was determined to memorise, this happy smile that was only for him.

"You're still here," Clint said, his voice sounding raspy.

Phil smiled. "I told you that I'd stay for as long as I could."

"I wasn't sure how long that would be."

"I don't know either."

Clint's hand tightened on his shoulder. "I'm hoping it's a good long while yet. Maybe a few years. They'll give us that, won't they?"

"Probably not."

"What will happen to you?"

"I don't know," Phil said honestly. "I've never heard of this happening before."

"Maybe it happens all the time and you just don't hear about it."

"Maybe." Phil gave into temptation and ran his hand down Clint's spine and over the curve of his ass, rejoicing in the sensation of smooth, warm skin against his palm. He noted with curiosity that goose bumps rose where he'd touched and he felt Clint shiver. "Are you alright?"

"Mmm." 

The sound Clint made was almost like a purr and Phil swept his hand back up and down his spine, just to hear that sound again. He thought he'd catalogued all the pleasure sounds Clint could make but apparently he was mistaken.

"Keep doing that and I might jump you again," Clint said huskily. "Just a warning, as you're apparently still trying to remember how all this shit works. I like you touching me, I fucking love your hands, and I'm about thirty seconds away from humping this bed. You're lucky I'm still kind of sleepy."

"Really?" Phil said, feeling a little surprised even though he could feel the tingles and warmth spreading through his body again.

He still couldn't remember anything about his first times all those centuries ago, but he was very sure there hadn't been this constant need for touch and sensation back then.

The look Clint gave him was dark and intent and much more awake already. "Really. Jesus fuck, Phil, I don't know what you've done to me and I don't know whether this is because you might disappear soon, but I can't seem to stop wanting you."

"Oh." The warm tingles were turning into that deep down heat curling in his belly that felt so good. Phil traced the shape of Clint's spine with a finger. "I can't seem to stop either."

"Good thing we're on the same page about this," Clint said, rolling onto his side so Phil's hand slipped onto his hipbone and Phil could see that he was already half erect and hardening more as Phil watched. "What's still on that list for you?"

Phil felt like he might drown in the look Clint gave him, filled with need and lust and filthy promise, and he had to lean down to kiss him before he burned up in it. Clint's lips were soft and there was rough stubble on his cheeks. It felt so good and Phil crowded closer, trying to taste deeper while Clint's tongue tangled with his and caressed in just the right way to make his breath catch.

Warm, strong hands held and guided him as Clint rolled onto his back, pulling Phil with him. Phil wanted to feel Clint's weight on him, pinning him to the bed, but his wings made that impossible and this was the next best thing. They were skin to skin, everything lining up perfectly, and then Clint's wrapped his legs around Phil's hips and ground up and it was perfect.

"This," Clint said, tearing his mouth away from the kiss to take in a gasping breath, "is called frottage. It's pretty great as well."

Phil lifted himself up on his elbows to look down into Clint's smirking face. "I did read the manuals, I know the technical terms for how all of this works."

"Just wanted to check. If we have time, you need to show me all the other things your manuals taught you."

"You can't read my manuals," Phil reminded him with a small smile.

Clint did something that involved arching and grinding all at the same time and Phil couldn't fight down a moan.

"Are we really going to do this?" Clint asked. "Are you actually going to pretend you can't give practical demonstrations of all those theories you learned?"

"It seems to be working for me so far."

"You're kind of a--"

Clint broke off and went still, muscles tensing in a way that Phil knew had nothing to do with arousal or sex. He did the same, straining to listen for what had caused the sudden change.

Somewhere out in the living room, he heard several loud thuds and then the faint sound of the door rattling.

"Shit," Clint breathed.


	8. Chapter 8

Clint heard the distinctive sound of someone pounding on his apartment door and trying the handle and he swore. It had to be one of the Avengers, there was no one else, and if he didn't do something about them then they'd probably get JARVIS to unlock the door for them. They had to have checked he was here or they wouldn't be beating on the door so insistently.

He twisted to look at the bedside table, checking for his phone or the card they all carried, and swore again. His phone was probably somewhere in the tangle of his pants across the room, and anyway he'd turned it off before his date and hadn't thought to turn it on again. His card was in his wallet with his pants.

"I have to get that," Clint said with regret.

Phil's expression went blank and he sat up quickly, his wings fanning out until one of them hit the headboard with a soft thump. The urge to reach out, to drag Phil down and kiss him until he smiled again, was almost overwhelming, but Clint fought it down and rolled to his feet.

There was another sharp rap on his door and then Natasha's muffled voice floated through. "I know you're in there, come on Clint, wake up before I get Tony to override JARVIS."

"Shit," Clint said. "She'll do it."

Phil nodded. "I've watched her over the last few months. I believe her."

"It's probably important." Clint snatched up his pants from the floor and shook them out before hopping around to pull them on. "Shit, sorry, this is fucking horrible timing. Don't go anywhere. Don't even move."

"You should get out there," Phil said.

Clint was still fastening his fly when he yanked the door open to find Natasha, fully dressed in her Black Widow gear, standing in the lobby with an impatient expression in her eyes. She gave him one long assessing look, surveying him from head to toe, and Clint felt himself turn red from his hair to his knees.

"Huh," Natasha said dryly. "Good night, was it?"

"Are we being called out?" Clint said, ignoring her comment.

"You'd know that if you hadn't been ignoring your messages," Natasha said. "Is he still here?"

"Who?"

"Your date."

"I--wh--uh..."

Natasha snorted. "Don't even try it. Better cover up those hickeys and try to look a little less well fucked. You've got five minutes or we leave without you."

She turned on her heel and stalked away to jab impatiently at the call button for the elevator and Clint closed the door before she could say anything else. This wasn't going to be something she forgot any time soon, and he could already imagine the shit she'd give him if he admitted that it hadn't been Andy who'd given him the hickeys. Of course, admitting that would open up another can of worms he'd been trying to avoid and how the hell had everything gone crazy so fast?

Five minutes. He had five minutes to get presentable, say goodbye to Phil and get to the Quinjet.

Clint hurried back to the bedroom and stopped in his tracks. Phil hadn't stayed in the bed, but he was still naked and he looked even better in daylight than he had in the dim lamplight. The sun caught his feathers and they seemed to shimmer, greens and blues and purples popping out of the deep black and shifting with every movement.

Phil stretched, arching his back and lifting his arms over his head, and Clint wanted him so much he ached with it. He wanted to kiss every inch of Phil's body and suck his fingers and feel that hitch in Phil's breath when a new sensation caught him by surprise. He wanted to watch movies with Phil and listen to that dry, wonderful voice explaining fantastical things as though they were normal. He wanted everything, all the things that other people got to have, and he wanted to have that forever.

"I'm going to miss you so much," Clint said.

He thought he'd spoken too quietly to be heard, but Phil turned to him and there was something raw and painful in his eyes that made Clint's heart hurt.

"I'm not gone yet," Phil said.

"I've got to go," Clint said. "Something's happening, they need me on the jet."

"I know," Phil said. "You should go, it's what you're supposed to do."

"What if you're not here when I get back?"

Phil's opened his mouth to say something but no sound came out and after a minute he gave up with a helpless shrug.

"That's what I thought," Clint said numbly.

He padded across the room to the closet where he kept a tactical suit and began methodically stripping out of his wrinkled pants and pulling on the protective gear. Clint could feel Phil's eyes on him as he dressed but he didn't dare look over, not even when he heard a quiet rustle of clothing. It was better to focus all his attention on buckles and zippers so he didn't do something stupid like beg Phil to stay.

It wasn't as though staying or going was anything Phil had any control over, after all.

He stamped a couple of times to settle his boots comfortably and slung a quiver over his shoulder. After that, there was nothing else to pretend he was focussing on so he had to turn around. Phil wasn't wearing his suit yet, but Clint thought he recognised the shorts he was wearing from his own underwear drawer. Clint frowned for a moment before dismissing the thought and lifting his eyes to Phil's face.

The misery he was feeling seemed to be reflected in Phil's eyes and that was what broke him. He crossed the floor in two steps and pulled Phil into an embrace, holding him tight and feeling Phil's arms wrapping around him just as strongly. Soft feathers tickled his skin and Clint was vaguely aware that Phil's wings had curved up and around to shut the world out around them, but he buried his face in Phil's shoulder and closed his eyes so he couldn't see anything.

He breathed in Phil's scent and pressed his lips against Phil's skin, trying to imprint the smell and feel of Phil onto his memory. It felt like that was all he'd been doing for the last few hours, creating memories so that he'd have something to hold onto after Phil was taken away. In the past, relationships had always ended in ways that meant he didn't really care whether he could pull up these kinds of sense memories. They'd fizzled out or burned hot and angry at the end and who wanted to remember that?

Maybe if they'd had the kind of time everyone else got things might have been different, but Clint didn't believe that. He'd spent more time with Phil over the last few months than he'd spent with most of his lovers and all he'd ended up wanting was more of him.

They clung together for a long, long moment before Phil's arms loosened and he pulled back slightly. Clint felt the darkness recede and he reluctantly opened his eyes to see Phil's wings folding neatly along his back. He couldn't quite bring himself to move away from Phil completely yet, though, and he linked his hands loosely behind Phil's neck.

"Guess it's time then," Clint said.

His voice sounded watery and his eyes were burning but he refused to turn into a snotty mess when there were people waiting upstairs to tease him,

"I might still be here when you get back," Phil said.

"You think there's any real chance of that?"

Phil's lips turned down and he sighed. "Not really."

"Yeah, I figured." Clint blinked to clear the fogginess that was trying to crowd into his burning eyes. "We didn't get enough time."

"I don't think there was ever going to be enough time for me," Phil said.

Clint swallowed hard against the pain that kept trying to crawl up his throat and make him babble all the things he'd been trying so hard not to say.

Don't go.

I love you.

How am I supposed to love someone else?

None of those thoughts would be fair and, looking into Phil's eyes, he didn't think there was any need to say them: Phil already knew.

The internal clock that had been running ever since he closed the door behind Natasha told him that their time was almost up. If he didn't leave now and something terrible happened without him then he'd never be able to stop blaming himself.

"Go," Phil whispered.

Clint nodded and leaned in to kiss Phil. It was only a gentle brush of lips but it rocked Clint as much as any of the filthy, demanding kisses they'd shared earlier. More, maybe, because this was going to be the last one and he wanted to savour the taste and feel of Phil's mouth but there was no time. He started to pull back but Phil's hand was suddenly clamping onto the back of his head, holding him steady while Phil kissed him with all the ferocity of a drowning man. Clint made a sound in the back of his throat that might have been--maybe, probably, was--a sob and pressed close for one devastating moment and then he had to tear away and step out of Phil's embrace.

Phil looked lost and miserable but he squared his shoulders and straightened up, as though proper posture would protect him from the pain. Clint felt his mental timer start buzzing urgently in the back of his mind and he took one last, long look before spinning away and almost running out of the room.

He hurried through the apartment and out of the door, slapping impatiently at the elevator call button so that he didn't turn around and go right back to Phil.

Stark wolf whistled when he skidded into the Quinjet and Clint ignored him, gritting his teeth as he slipped into the pilot's chair. Natasha gave him one long look, and he didn't know what she saw, but she reached out and squeezed his hand for a moment before putting on her most impassive Black Widow expression and running through the flight checks with him.

***

"Why is it dragons again?" Clint said into his comm. "Didn't we do dragons, like, six months ago or something stupid?"

"It's dragons again because there are dragons," Stark said. "If we knew why there were fucking dragons in the first place, we'd know how to make them stop appearing. Fuck ow shit!"

Clint craned upward, squinting to see the part of the sky where Stark was trying to out-fly three of the scaly, fire-breathing monsters that had appeared over the streets of Manhattan. Bruce was still insisting that they couldn't be dragons but as far as Clint was concerned, anything that flew, breathed fire, and looked like _that_ was a dragon.

Stark zoomed out from between the two serpents just as one of them unleashed a wide stream of fire. It incinerated the other dragon's wing and there was an ear-shattering shriek as the damaged creature tumbled and spun down to the ground. The crash of glass and metal told Clint that it had probably hit a car and he hoped that all the vehicles down there were safely abandoned. Cap and Natasha were supposed to be taking care of that but he'd been too busy in the early stages of the battle to watch them.

The streets below were looked empty apart from the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulances that had been dispatched before the Avengers arrived. The EMTs were taking shelter in the shops and offices that all the other civilians had retreated to but there were still a few police officers crouching behind cars and trying to pick off any dragons that flew too low. Their sidearms were only effective if they were lucky enough to hit the soft places where the creatures' legs met their bodies, but they were trying anyway. Clint spared a thought to wonder whether Andy the EMT was down there with his colleagues, but then he heard the distinctive roar of an approaching dragon and he had to focus on what was happening around him.

He refused to think about Phil because his hands shook every time he did. Shooting things had always been a good coping mechanism, though, and dragons made great targets: challenging to hit, no ethical debates about whether it was right to be fighting them, and they made a really amazing boom if he caught them just right with the acid arrows.

The incoming dragon was heading straight for his roof and Clint planted his feet firmly, refusing to duck or hide. He calmly touched the button on his bow and felt the whirr as an arrowhead slotted into place in his quiver. The fletching felt familiar and good against his fingers as he pulled it out and nocked it.

Clint drew smoothly and sighted down his arrow, watching as the dragon flew straight for him and roared its defiance again. He waited another precious moment and the dragon opened its mouth. His arrow flew from the bow with the familiar thrum-swish sound that always made his heart beat a little faster, and the dragon threw back its head at just the right moment, exactly as he'd predicted. Clint had studied the footage of the bastards from the last time and he'd memorised their patterns.

Bright red light glowed in the dragon's throat, the precursor to its flames, and the arrow hit that spot just as the dragon opened its mouth again. The acid ate through its scales and skin in a moment and the creature burst into flame with a muffled roar.

Something was wrong, though. It didn't explode the way they usually did. Fire glowed hot and bright underneath its scales, bursting through cracks and holes, but the dragon's body continued to hurtle through the air and even seemed to pick up speed. Clint did the calculations instinctively and his heart sank because he knew without even looking that the remains were going to crash into his rooftop and there was nowhere up here for him to hide or shelter. The flat area was too small and the next closest building was too far away to jump.

He ran to the edge, already pulling out and nocking his grappling arrow, and took one quick glance around, but he already knew there were no other buildings he could get to. Heat washed over him as he jumped off the edge of the roof a moment before the dragon crashed into it and finally exploded with a loud boom.

He twisted in mid-air and drew his bow, aiming up at one of the walls now speeding past him. The arrow released and hit concrete with a chink but it didn't bite. It fell away and Clint was falling, falling without a rope or a net or even a team mate close enough to catch him.

Clint closed his eyes and accepted his fate.

***

The door closed behind Clint, and Phil let himself sag for a moment, dragged down by misery and the deep ache of longing that he'd couldn't push away anymore. He allowed himself to wallow in it for one long moment, just in case he never got to feel it again, before forcing himself upright. He might be heartbroken, he might be facing unknown torments when he was called back to the Hub, but he still had a job to do.

All those weeks ago, he'd vowed that Clint wouldn't go out on a mission without Phil watching over him and he wasn't going to break that promise now.

There were just a few problems he was going to have to deal with first.

The first was clothing. Phil was absolutely certain now that his unexpected solidity was connected to his decision to give in to his feelings to Clint. It was probably the beginning of the process that would take away his wings and send him somewhere else, some terrible place where he'd pay for falling in love with his client. He'd accepted that fact hours ago and he didn't even mind because it was a price worth paying.

Unfortunately, his new inability to bend the laws of physics had also broken his ability to conjure up clothes with a thought. He'd been trying ever since Clint left the bedroom the first time and nothing had happened. Something he'd grown so used to that he didn't even notice it anymore was now as impossible for him as touching a mortal had been a few months ago.

There was no way to tell whether he was still invisible to other mortals, but Phil didn't much like the idea of finding out by appearing to people naked.

He'd stolen some underwear and Clint's expression when he'd recognised the shorts had made Phil's stomach tighten with want. Phil suspected the manuals on mortal sexual psychology had left out a lot because nothing he'd ever read mentioned that kind of look from something as simple as borrowed clothing.

Or maybe it was because he'd borrowed underwear? Phil shook his head and pushed the thought aside because there was no sense wondering anymore. It wasn't as though he was going to get to find out what that look had meant.

He needed more than a pair of shorts if he was going to leave the apartment and potentially be seen. Phil dug through Clint's drawers until he found a pair of purple sweatpants that mostly fitted--Clint was a little shorter in the leg than he was--and a t-shirt with a bulls-eye on the front. After wrestling for a minute to pull the shirt on over his wings, Phil gave up any hope of dignity and threw it aside. None of Clint's shoes fitted, either, and Phil felt exposed and almost naked dressed in just the sweatpants, but there was nothing he could do.

The Tower's sensors had never registered his presence before and apparently that was one thing that hadn't changed yet. It was a good thing in some ways because at least JARVIS hadn't sent out any kind of intruder alert. On the other hand, Phil didn't know how to get out of the apartment without Clint and JARVIS couldn't help him.

One wall of Clint's living space was actually a huge window, giving him a stunning view across New York, and he'd once remarked casually that it was his last resort emergency exit as well. Phil hurried over to it and examined the walls on either side, searching for some kind of trigger that would open them. It was no use having an emergency escape that couldn't be opened, after all.

He found the switch concealed near the floor and there was a soft hum as part of the window began slowly sliding away, disappearing up into somewhere Phil didn't want to think about. All he really cared about was the clean, cold air now filling the apartment and the freedom he could feel entering with it.

Somewhere deep in the building, an alarm began to sound. Phil ignored it and waited impatiently for the gap to become wide enough for him to jump through.

Three feet...four feet...five feet...

Phil backed up and ran at the open space, jumping away from the building with all the strength in his legs, and stretching his wings as soon as he was clear. For a moment he just fell, plummeting like a rock, before he caught a current and then he was soaring instead. 

Beating his wings seemed harder than normal and he strained to gain height but slowly, slowly he rose. Above the skyline and into the clean, thin air, he rose with every wing stroke until he could see the city spread out beneath him. Phil turned his head from side to side, searching for any sign of the emergency that had called Clint away.

There, a plume of smoke, and Phil was banking and turning before he'd even consciously thought about doing it. That had to be where Clint was, though, so he flew to it with every bit of speed he could muster.

He recognised the dragons as soon as he caught sight of one of them. It ignored him, too busy trying to burn Thor out of the sky, so Phil flew on looking for Clint. These were the same creatures he'd seen the first time he'd watched Clint fight and it felt like some kind of dreadful symmetry that they were here again at the end. He spotted the Quinjet on a rooftop but there was no one around it and he continued on, trying to watch the ground and every high vantage point he could see all at once.

Thor and Stark were heavily engaged with dragons and Phil could hear the Hulk several streets away, probably occupied with his own creatures. He caught a glimpse of red and blue at street level and a flicker of black not far away, which meant Steve and Natasha had to be down there protecting civilians.

Something roared above him. Phil glanced up and narrowly avoided a collision with a dragon by pulling in his wings and dropping several feet. By the time he'd pulled out of the tumble through the air, it was too late. He watched, horrified, as the smouldering dragon sped straight for a building where he could see Clint's distinctive profile standing at the edge. There was nowhere for Clint to go and Phil instinctively knew what Clint would do next.

Clint jumped and twisted in the air and Phil wheeled to fly to him. He'd seen Clint do this before, he knew how it usually played out, but this time something felt different. Sick fear rose in his throat and his muscles burned as he tried to fly faster, but the grapple bounced off the concrete anyway.

Phil tucked in his wings and turned into a steep dive, following Clint down and straining to catch him as he tumbled and spun through the air. For a moment Phil felt dazzled as something white hot and silver surrounded Clint, light so bright it made his eyes hurt and water. Phil blinked and squinted through the pain and suddenly he was there, next to Clint, grabbing for him at the same time as he snapped his wings out to slow their descent.

There wasn't any hope that he'd pull out of the dive before they hit the ground and Phil felt his wings tear and break as he fought against gravity anyway. All he needed, all he wanted, was to slow them enough for Clint to survive the impact.

He tightened his arms around Clint's chest and with one last, shuddering wash of pain, he turned them in the air so that his body broke Clint's fall as they landed. Pain flooded every sense he had and Phil felt everything dissolve into white blankness.

***

Phil woke in a white room. Floor, walls, ceiling, all were blank and stark with a strange feeling of emptiness. He lay on his back for a while, trying to work out why it felt so familiar and how he had got there.

And why he wasn't in any pain. That seemed fairly important as well, although he wasn't sure why.

He slowly sat up and, as that didn't hurt either, he got to his feet and stretched his wings so he could feel the joints and feathers shift into place before he settled them neatly along his back. Then he frowned.

Wings. He still had wings.

Phil looked down and patted his clothes to make sure he wasn't imagining them, but his familiar suit was right there and didn't feel insubstantial. Something very strange was going on. Why did he recognise this strangely blank room? Why hadn't his wings ached and hurt when he'd been lying on them for a few minutes?

"All the old rules apply to you again while you're here."

Phil spun around and found Fury standing a few feet away. His black coat and dark navy wings made him look as bulky and intimidating as ever and Phil felt a surge of fear tighten his gut. Fury knew, it was there in his eye, and Phil swallowed hard as all the implications of that one fact crashed down.

This was it, the moment he'd been trying to run from for weeks, and he didn't know what to say.

"Yeah, I know," Fury said with a grim expression. "I've known for a long time. Think you can get away with this kind of shit without me knowing?"

"Why didn't you do anything earlier?"

"I was waiting to see how it all played out. Got to say, I wasn't expecting it to play out the way it did." The smile that Fury sent him wasn't nice. "My money was on things going the other way. I owe someone a lot of drinks right now."

"Sorry?" Phil said cautiously.

Strangely, Fury laughed. Not his usual quiet chuckle; a real, full-bellied laugh that left him wiping a tear away from his eye when he was finished. Phil watched, feeling bemused at the reaction because it was so far from his expectations.

"Sir?" he said when Fury seemed to be calming down.

"Shit, Phil, you're apologising for..." Fury snorted and gestured. Two white chairs appeared and he sat down, waving for Phil to take the other. "How much do you remember about your life when you were mortal?"

Phil sat, still feeling confused, but his wings passed through the back of the chair as he expected and he relaxed slightly into it. "My mortal life? I don't remember much. It was a long time ago."

"Figured that was the case."

"Sir, is it really relevant? It was a long time ago and my crimes are much more recent." Phil frowned at the white room, the feeling of familiarity still nudging at the back of his mind. "What is this place?"

"You've been here before," Fury said. "When you died. This is where we brought you so that you could make your choice. Join us in SHIELD or cycle through another mortal life, see if it went any better for you the next time around."

"I don't remember that," Phil said.

"Yeah, most of us don't. I've got special dispensation from the Council to know about this place otherwise I couldn't do my job. The rest of you don't get to remember it. Otherwise most of you would start to question why the fuck you thought it was such a great idea to pick SHIELD when the other option was so much more restful."

"The other option doesn't sound very restful," Phil said.

"That's because another mortal life isn't the option we give most people," Fury said. "Just a few of you."

"I really don't understand, I'm sorry."

"Maybe I should start from the beginning." Fury waited until Phil nodded mutely before continuing. "Not many people are good candidates for becoming agents. When we see a good prospect, we grab them and bring them here to make their choice. Most of you have a happy mortal life with a good match so we grab both partners when they're available. We give candidates a choice: go on to the other place or stay and work with us. Not many choose SHIELD."

"Agents can match?"

"Of course agents can match," Fury said. "Usually you come to us already matched. Who understands love and matching better than someone who has done the whole thing and recognises it? Sometimes, though, good candidates end up in this room on their own. No match, no person they want to be with forever. Just one person, who got a shitty raw deal in their mortal life and wants to do something to prevent that happening to other people. They get the choice: eternity with SHIELD or another chance at the mortal life to see whether they get a better deal the second time around. Most people pick the mortal life again, but a few of you pick SHIELD and that's what you did eight centuries ago."

A memory nudged at Phil's mind, a sense of relief that he could help people and wouldn't have to go back to that lonely, cold life he'd had before.

"I chose SHIELD," Phil said quietly.

"You did and you've been one of my best agents," Fury said.

"Why didn't I know that agents could match?"

"Most agents come to us ready-matched," Fury said. "You people stay pretty quiet about your personal lives. Somehow you managed to drift in with a whole group of agents who didn't match during their mortal lives. I guess word didn't get around that your little group of freaks wasn't normal and none of you ever actually asked other agents about their first lives or who they spend their downtime with."

"I didn't realise we got downtime," Phil said dryly.

"Yeah, that's the other thing about your little group--you all work too hard. That break room wasn't supposed to be your home, you know."

"Why do I get the feeling you might have deliberately kept a few things from us?"

Fury's eye twitched. "Because you're a suspicious, paranoid bastard."

"Hmm."

"Point is, there aren't many agents in SHIELD who aren't matched," Fury said. "But there are a few. Enough. I've got an agent who deals with agents like you and your case has been on their desk for the last two years. You're a fucking nightmare to match."

Phil felt like he'd been punched in the gut. All the air left his lungs and he stared at Fury speechlessly until he started choking and had to try to breathe. He felt Fury's gaze on him as he coughed on his own spit before his lungs finally remembered how they worked and he could draw in some steady, calming breaths.

"I'm someone's client?" he asked, voice shaking and choked and having to be forced past the lump that seemed to be stuck in his throat. "My file. Someone is working it?"

"Not exclusively, fuck no," Fury said. "That would send someone insane. My agent is a roamer, not permanently attached anywhere, but you're one of their assignments and you've been sending them nuts for the last two years. Every damn agent they've nudged into your path hasn't even made a dent in that crazy ass psychological shell you've got. Not even Darcy and they were sure you'd fall for her."

"Darcy was my student."

"Yeah, we got that. All those ethics, fucking up my agent's matches." Fury smirked. "Good thing we finally found your Achilles heel."

Phil swallowed. "Barton."

"Yeah, Barton. We throw a dozen agents in your path and nothing happens. You fall for the mortal who throws himself off buildings for a living instead."

"That's why you assigned him to me?"

Fury shook his head. "No. Believe me, Phil, that thought never crossed my mind. We match agents with agents, not mortals. I gave Barton's file to you because I thought you were the best agent--the only agent--who would be able to get him matched off before he killed his aura past the point of repair."

"I failed," Phil said miserably.

"Are you blind?" Fury asked. "Shit, Phil. No, you didn't fail. You are so far from failing, there aren't words for it. Did you see his aura when you caught him?"

"I..." Phil trailed off as the memory returned, the brilliant silver light that had almost blinded him just before he got his arms around Clint. "He matched."

"Don't sound so disappointed about it. Matching is a good thing."

"It is?"

"He matched to you, dumbass," Fury said. "Best aura change I've seen in decades. You can't see your own aura, of course, but trust me, it's good. The pair of you almost rivalled the sun for a while there. Hill's having aura envy because her Stark moment got beaten out by the pair of you and you weren't even fucking when it happened."

Phil swallowed hard because just the thought that Fury might have seen what he and Clint had been doing together made him squirm. There were some things he really didn't want to think about his terrifying boss seeing.

"Don't worry, I wasn't monitoring you," Fury said, rolling his eye. "Not during that part of the process, anyway. My agent was watching for the aura change and they're discreet. Nobody's going to be passing gossip around SHIELD about whatever athletic activities you got up to last night with the mortal."

"Oh. Thank you?" Phil paused as a thought intruded. "If you didn't assign Clint to me so we'd match, how did we...what...why was it even possible? Mortals shouldn't even be able to see agents. I tried to find a precedent, but all I could find where a few psychics a couple of centuries back. Clint definitely isn't psychic."

"About a week after I assigned you, my agent came to me with a new plan for you. They saw something I couldn't see and they needed some help with the nudging. Seems they did the same as you did: searched for a precedent, then searched for rules saying mortals can't match with agents. When they couldn't find either they came to me with a plan and a request."

"And that's why Clint could suddenly see me?"

"I hope we were a bit more subtle than that," Fury said. "You gradually became more real to Barton. Flashes at first, in the corner of his eye, and then he could see you. The more you two bonded, the more corporeal you became for him. I had to do some clever shit to make all of that work. It's never been done before."

"I thought there was something wrong with me," Phil said, feeling numb. "I thought I was broken or reaching the end of my time with SHIELD. I was going to tell you everything today."

"We figured something like that happened: you suddenly got stupid stubborn on us just when we thought everything was going to work out."

"Agents and mortals can't match. I didn't want Clint to go through his life alone so I tried harder to match him to someone else when I realised how he felt about me."

"Like that was ever going to work."

Phil shrugged. "It might have done. No match is inevitable."

"Our job would be a lot easier if it was."

"It would." Phil took a careful, slow breath, trying to push down the fear still lurking like a hard lump in the base of his stomach. "So what happens now?"

"Well, mortals and agents can't settle down and live happily ever after if that's what you're asking," Fury said.

"Then it's all been for nothing, Clint will have a broken match instead of no match. How is that better?"

"I said mortals and agents can't settle down together," Fury said. "Right now, you're still an agent. A bit more corporeal than any other agent, yeah, but we can fix that. Set you back the way you were and Barton can go back to his life with a broken match. That's one option. Or."

"Or?"

"There's a second option." Fury waited for a beat and Phil gritted his teeth so he didn't lose his temper and shout for Fury to just get on with it. That would just make him even more determined to string it all out. Fury was exactly that kind of infuriating bastard and he'd always loved making agents squirm unhappily. After a long, tense moment Fury glared and gave in. "Second option. You can take a sabbatical, go mortal for a while. You get your happily ever after with Barton but you don't get to keep any of your powers. For the next couple of decades, you'd be an ordinary human with an ordinary life, but you'll remember all the things you could do once. That's the price, the knowing."

"Mortality," Phil said slowly.

"For a while."

"And after?"

"When you die?" Fury shrugged. "I don't know. We've never had anything like this come up before. Who knows whether you'll be allowed to make your choice again."

"What about Clint?"

"What about Barton? You think I know where he'll go after he dies?"

Phil raised an eyebrow. "You think I'll believe you don't?"

"I don't much care whether you believe it."

"So I have two options," Phil said. "Go back to SHIELD or become mortal again, with no guarantees about what will happen to me or to Clint and the possibility that we might not end up back in this room or have any choice in our destination later."

"That's pretty much it. Do you need some time to make your decision?"

"No."

Phil stood and stretched his wings, shaking them out so he could feel their weight and the endless possibilities they'd always represented for him. The chances to change lives and give people the happiness he hadn't found in his mortal life. He still couldn't remember much about it, but he was absolutely certain now that whatever misery he'd had the first time around hadn't just been a lack of a match. The cold lonely ache in his chest every time he tried to nudge at the memories was more than that, and he'd chosen SHIELD to escape that pain. With SHIELD he'd had the power to make lives better and he'd be giving that up if he surrendered his wings and returned to the mortal world.

"So, what's it to be?" Fury asked.

Phil smiled. "I choose the match. I choose mortality."

Fury's smile was so wide, so happy, Phil felt his eyes burn and his chest tighten just from the power of the pure joy in it.

"Good," Fury said. "I was going to assign you the worst fucking files I could find if you picked the other option."

There was no time to say anything, and Phil didn't know what he would have said anyway if he there had been. "Thank you" didn't seem like enough, somehow. A sense of warmth and peace descended on him as the world turned white around him again and he faded into somewhere else.

***

Clint was vaguely aware of sirens and explosions around him, but he was too stunned to do more than lie where he'd fallen and try desperately to suck in great gulps of air. By some miracle he was alive. He remembered the concrete crumbling away and the grapple failing, he remembered falling and knowing that there was no one to catch him and then...

A blur of black and purple, strong arms around his chest, and soft feathers brushing his hands.

Phil.

Clint's eyes snapped open and for a moment he was blinded as something exploded almost directly above him. Flames and debris flew through the air and he heard Stark whoop over the comm but he didn't care. It was all just background noise.

He slowly rolled over and sat up, almost afraid to look around and see confirmation of what he feared. There was no point being afraid, not really. They'd said goodbye and he thought he'd accepted that Phil had gone forever, but somewhere deep inside he knew there'd been a small kernel of hope. Buried so deep and boxed in so tight that he couldn't hold onto it too tightly, but it had been there ever since they'd kissed for the first time and now he didn't want it to finally be destroyed.

Ash and building rubble littered the street and Clint reluctantly looked around, searching for any sign that the impossible might have happened.

There was a shape a few feet away, grey and sooty and somehow both right and wrong all at once. Clint crawled over to it, hardly daring to breathe. The chatter in his earpiece sounded loud and intrusive so he ripped it out and threw it aside.

The shape was human and coated with dust and soot but a flash of purple showed through the muck, purple from a pair of sweatpants that Clint thought he recognised. The shape of the arms and chest were familiar as well, achingly familiar even though he'd only had one night to learn them with his hands and lips.

"Phil?" Clint whispered.

He didn't dare to reach out in case the form disappeared, evaporated into nothing and took his heart with it. For a moment that felt like a lifetime, the shape was completely still. No movement, not even the slight rise and fall of its chest to indicate that it was alive. Clint's eyes burned and he couldn't breathe, sick with the thought that he'd been left with Phil's lifeless body as a final "fuck you" from the universe.

"Please," he said, softly. "Just...please. I need you."

It was as if something--someone--had been waiting for those words. For that desperation and pain to be spoken aloud as some kind of prayer to whatever higher beings might be listening. The movement was so small Clint wondered whether he'd imagined it, but then Phil's chest rose again and he knew that it was real. His vision was clouding over and his lungs felt like they'd explode and Clint didn't care anymore because Phil was alive. He was alive.

Clint reached out and took Phil's hand in his, feeling the warmth and strength there under the grit and dirt. A moment later Phil's eyelashes fluttered and he opened his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that Clint now knew he'd never able to forget. A smile slowly pulled at the corners of Phil's lips and lit up his face and Clint couldn't look away.

"You're alive," Clint said.

"I'm alive," Phil said, his voice sounding thin and uncertain. "It worked."

"What worked?"

Phil took a slow, raspy breath. "Mortality."

Clint stared down at him, the word feeling too big and too important to fit into his mind. He couldn't process it, couldn't think about anything except that it was Phil's face and Phil's smile under the muck and he hadn't thought that would ever be possible again.

Maybe it wasn't, maybe he was hallucinating or having some kind of dream that would turn into a nightmare at any moment. Maybe he hadn't survived the fall and he was lying in a hospital bed, broken beyond repair and giving himself the happy ending he'd never thought he deserved.

"Are you real?" Clint asked.

"I think so?"

The uncertainty in Phil's voice made something shatter in Clint's chest and it hurt so much he couldn't breathe. He had to lean down and kiss him, to taste the ashes and soot coating Phil's lips, because if he didn't then he'd never know. Phil's mouth opened under his immediately and Clint plunged inside, drinking in the undefinable taste that he'd learned so quickly meant 'Phil' and 'safe' and 'wanted'.

Phil's hand tightened around his, squeezing so tight Clint thought his fingers might snap. Clint heard someone whimper, a desperate sound, and he realised a moment later that it was him. His back was aching and the arm he was holding himself up with was shaking but he couldn't stop kissing Phil in case he turned out to be an illusion the moment Clint pulled away.

And the wonderful thing was that Phil seemed equally desperate, lifting his head to follow the kiss if Clint tried to move back and wrapping his free hand around the back of Clint's neck to hold him there. It was a frantic meeting of lips and teeth with no finesse, just an intense need to taste and feel so they could finally believe.

Clint freed his hand and wrapped both arms around Phil, pulling him upright until Phil was sitting half in his lap and they could hold each other tight. Phil threaded his fingers under the buckles of Clint's tactical suit, something Clint approved of because he could feel the brush of Phil's nails against his skin. There was no way he was letting Phil go ever again and every small possessive gesture Phil made drove that feeling deeper.

Clint ran his hands restlessly up and down Phil's naked back. Building dust made the skin feel gritty and rough and Clint missed the smooth softness of Phil's feathers.

Feathers.

A cold lump of fear settled in Clint's stomach and he tore out of the kiss, ignoring the protesting sound Phil made. He was breathing like he'd run a marathon, they both were, but Clint flattened his hands on Phil's shoulder blades and looked into Phil's eyes.

"Your wings," he said. "Where are your wings?"

"I made a choice," Phil said steadily.

"What kind of choice?"

"Mortality."

That word again, the one that felt too much and too big for Clint's mind. It meant something important that he should understand but he couldn't. Something that would change his life, and he didn't know whether it was a thing he was allowed to have. There was no way he would get that lucky; he never got to have the happy ending. 

"I don't get it," Clint said. "Phil, you'll need to explain it to me in really tiny words because right now, it sounds like you're saying I get to keep you and that can't be right."

"I was given a choice," Phil said, slowly and carefully. "Go back to SHIELD and spend the rest of eternity as an agent. Or give it all up and stay with you as a mortal."

"Why did you pick me?"

Phil smiled and traced a line along Clint's jaw with his finger. Clint leaned into the gentle touch, letting his eyes fall shut for just a moment.

"I picked you," Phil said, "because I love you."

Somehow that word, those four letters, felt bigger in Clint's head than "mortality" had done. It echoed in his mind, throwing everything out of balance even though he knew they'd both being saying "I love you" with every touch and look for a long time. Somehow hearing it out loud made it feel real and huge and terrifying, because there were so many other things that came with this kind of love.

"I didn't think agents could love mortals," Clint said, trying not to sound like he was falling apart inside. "We talked about this, agents and mortals don't match. We can't."

"Love doesn't always have to mean a match," Phil said.

"What about your perfect record?"

The way Phil's lips twitched into a sly half-smile made Clint's heart skip a beat and he wanted to kiss Phil, but he wanted to hear what he had to say more. This was important. _Matching_ had been important to Phil, it had been the entire purpose of his life for centuries.

"My perfect record is unbeaten," Phil said. "You've matched. To me. My boss was very impressed with our auras."

Clint's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth for a long moment before he managed to choke out, "Fuck me. We really did it?"

"We really did."

"Was your boss watching?" Clint asked, wincing uncomfortably at the thought of it. "Are you all voyeurs?"

Phil rolled his eyes. "I told you, I've always allowed my clients some privacy. Apparently, so has my boss. We didn't match when we were having sex. Not that it wasn't amazing, but we matched when I...when..."

"When you saved my life?" Clint said.

Phil nodded mutely.

"Does it always happen that way? The matching, I mean. I guess the lifesaving isn't a normal part of matching for most people."

"Sometimes," Phil said. "Sometimes it's exactly what you're imagining. Most of the time, actually. Some agents choose to watch their clients at all times just in case it does happen then, because they don't want to miss it. But sometimes it happens at another important moment in a client's life. I tried to save you and that's when the match settled."

"You did save me. My grapple failed and if you hadn't been there, I'd be splattered all over the ground right now." Clint smiled. "My hero."

"Did you hit your head when you fell?"

"You saved me from a messy and painful death. I'm allowed to think you're my hero for at least the next couple of days. Make the most of it, I'll be complaining about your dirty socks next week." 

Clint stopped, clamping down on the words that wanted to flow out of his mouth in an uncontrolled rush. They'd barely established that they were really getting to be together; this wasn't the right time to be asking about the future. Phil probably needed to be mortal for at least a day before that happened.

"Sorry, I just--" Clint broke off and smiled. "Have I told you yet that I love you?"

"Not in so many words, but I did get that general impression," Phil said. "It seemed like a good assumption to make."

He said it in such a dry tone, but there was joy and laughter and something a tiny bit wicked in his eyes. Clint couldn't stop himself leaning into taste Phil's lips again, just because he could. Phil made a soft, happy noise in his throat, and sucked on Clint's tongue for one delicious moment, taking charge of the kiss and chasing Clint's tongue back into his mouth so that Clint was the one making small whimpering sounds. Clint pulled him closer and smiled against his lips when Phil wriggled his fingers under a buckle on his tactical suit again.

Someone cleared their throat behind him.

The sound didn't penetrate the haze of happy lust that was clouding Clint's mind but he felt Phil go tense in his arms and he reluctantly pulled out of the kiss to look up.

Stark, Steve, Natasha and Thor were standing a few feet away. There were pink spots in Steve's cheeks and Stark's eyebrows seemed to be trying to escape into his hairline. Thor's expression was filled with confusion and Natasha...

There was a small, sardonic smile curving Natasha's lips. Clint blushed as he remembered that he was sitting the middle of the battlefield with a strange half-naked man in his lap, kissing him like they planned to start ripping at each other's clothes at any minute. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the echo of embarrassment in Phil's face although the grime coating him covered any pinkness he might have been displaying.

It was a shame because Clint liked making Phil blush. He always looked unguarded and raw when the colour flooded his face, as though he was feeling too much to be contained in his heart and the emotions had to find another outlet. Thinking about that made Clint impatient to take Phil home so he could see it all over again, this time without the lurking fear that it would end soon.

Stark cleared his throat again and said, "Anything you'd like to tell us, Barton?"

"Who's your friend?" Natasha asked. "Looks like you know him well but I could have sworn that I knew all your friends and special friends and him? I don't recognise him."

Phil started to move away but Clint wrapped his arms firmly around Phil's waist to keep him in place. It probably looked desperate and possessive but Phil shrugged and settled back so Clint decided he was allowed, just this once, to be a little bit desperate. There was still a small voice inside that worried Phil would disappear if he left Clint's embrace, and Phil seemed to sense that.

"Guys, this is Phil," Clint said. "He's...it's a long story."

"Would that story involve feathers?" Natasha asked. "I saw him appear out of the sky and stop your fall and I'm sure he had wings then. Big black ones."

"You saw him?" Clint said.

"We all saw him," Stark said.

"He was hard to miss," Steve said. "It was the wings. We don't often see people with wings who aren't trying to kill us."

Clint looked down and met Phil's eyes. There was a small confused frown between Phil's brows.

"Did you pick mortality before or after you saved me?" Clint asked.

"After. Definitely after." Phil shook his head. "I guess someone made an assumption about what I'd do and jumped the gun a bit."

"I'm...really confused," Stark said.

"As am I," Thor said.

"Maybe we should leave them to it for a while," Stark said. "Until they stop looking at each other like that. It's really disturbing. Remember, you two, there are media cameras on their way and I'm a genius but even I can't get naked sweaty sex photos removed from the Internet after they've gone viral."

Clint grinned and flipped Stark off behind Phil's back. There was too much happiness bubbling up in his chest to give a damn about Stark's teasing and he didn't much care if photos of him kissing Phil made headline news tomorrow. Right now, he had Phil Coulson alive and mortal in his arms and nothing else mattered. Clint ducked down and kissed Phil softly in full view of everyone.


	9. Chapter 9

The office on the top floor of the Hub had taken many forms over the centuries, but currently it looked a lot like the kind of office the head of an organisation like the CIA might choose. There were a few subtle differences, that was inevitable, but nothing so glaring that any of the men in their offices in the mortal world would have felt out of place.

One wall was lined with monitors all displaying video footage from dozens of locations, most of them seeming to show ordinary people doing ordinary things. There was an odd perspective to the images that betrayed they hadn't come from any camera and two of the screens showed a subtle hint of a winged shadow in the background.

A large conference table sat in one of the room. It had never been used, but human imagination insisted on it.

The central feature of the room was a huge wooden desk, the kind of impressive piece of furniture designed to intimidate anyone approaching the man sitting behind it. Several folders had been piled on a tray in the corner of the desk and there was a single, bright desk lamp on the other side that provided the only illumination in the room apart from the glow from the monitors. It left the desk's owner in shadow, a bulky shape brooding over an open file in front of him. The effect was deliberate and in most agents it was enough to make them hesitate for a moment before approaching.

Melinda May wasn't most agents. She strode across the room and dropped two folders on the desk. One of them was so thick it fell with a heavy thump. The other one was thin and crackled as it landed, as if the papers inside were old and fragile and protesting at the rough treatment.

There was a long pause. Melinda's posture might have been called respectful and attentive to anyone who didn't know her. She clasped her hands behind her back and maintained a blank expression, which Phil Coulson would have immediately identified as Melinda gritting her teeth and refusing to let anyone get a rise out of her.

Eventually Fury looked up. "What's this?"

"Two files for the Archive. I need your sign-off."

"All the paperwork's in order?"

Melinda rolled her eyes. "Of course."

Fury sat forward so that the light caught his face and allowed her to see his smile. "Good work. That may be your best match yet."

She inclined her head slightly, accepting the compliment with a precisely judged level of gratitude. "They did most of it themselves. Barton's file shows that he's usually immune to most attempts at nudging."

"You just achieved the first mortal-agent match this department has ever seen," Fury said. "Take the compliment."

"Compliments don't mean much. You making good on your deal, that means more." Melinda's small smile was sharp. "One decade of downtime. For both of us."

"I can give you a week."

"That wasn't our deal."

"Yeah? Then next time, don't match agents and mortals." Fury shrugged. "I've got a vacancy and I need someone very, very good to fill it."

"You want me in Miracles permanently?"

"Not permanently. Sabbatical cover. As soon as Coulson comes back, you're off the hook."

"Director..."

"Two weeks," Fury said. "And a promise of a year after you're done with Miracles, both of you. I can't afford to lose two of my best agents for any longer than that."

"That's still not the decade you promised me when you gave me Phil's file."

"Yeah, and you said you'd get him matched in a month." Fury raised his eyebrow. "I also had to make a deal with the council to change his power ratings. Do you have any idea how many favours I had to call in to get that? You're lucky I'm still impressed by the quality of that match and feeling generous."

"You wanted to see if it could be done, too."

"I wanted to get Coulson's file into the Archive so it didn't keep making people nervous," Fury said. "Longest we've ever had an unmatched agent wandering around the place. Two weeks is my final offer, take it before I decide you're starting tomorrow."

Melinda waited a beat before nodding gracefully. "Fine. Two weeks and a promise of a year when Phil's sabbatical ends." She tilted her head slightly. "You really think he'll be back?"

"He'll get the choice. It's up to him."

"I thought you told him--"

"I know what I told him," Fury said. "I couldn't make it easy for him, could I? He'll get the choice again, and Barton as well. Fuck, that's going to be a nightmare when it happens."

"Could be what this place needs," Melinda said. "Something new to liven things up a little."

"Agent Lewis is already providing more life than some of our agents like."

"I like her."

"Good." Fury closed the folder in front of him and pushed it across the desk. "She's your next file."

"I thought I was on Miracles?"

"You are. Never said you had to give up your other duties to do it."

Melinda sighed and reached for the file.

***

Clint tore off a large chunk of his muffin and hummed happily as he savoured the deep chocolate taste. The _Happy Cup_ was busy but they'd managed to claim his usual corner table and Maggie had smiled at him without a hint of flirtatiousness. Now that he knew about SHIELD and what they did, he'd concluded that the strange day when Maggie had passed her phone number to him had probably been one of Phil's attempts to match him. Phil had looked embarrassed and changed the subject when Clint asked but that had only confirmed he was right.

At the moment, Maggie was smiling brilliantly at a customer who had arrived a couple of minutes ago. He was cute in a floppy-haired kind of way and he wore skinny jeans and a sweater that was probably fashionable for the college-age crowd. Clint suspected there was angelic interference happening somewhere, and he'd noticed there was a table near the back of the shop that nobody was sitting at even though the shop was busy. It had a good view of the counter and Clint wouldn't have been surprised if an agent or two were watching Maggie with files open in front of them.

Natasha carefully stirred four sachets of sugar into her coffee and said, without looking up from her task, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Clint sighed. He'd been expecting this question, which was why he'd worked hard not to be caught alone with Natasha for the last three days. The way she didn't quite look at him and seemed to be completely focussed on tearing her sugar packets into tiny neat squares was the loudest tell she had that she was feeling hurt.

"Nat, be honest," Clint said. "If I'd turned up on your doorstep babbling about angels sitting in my apartment that nobody else could see, what would you have done? Is there any chance you wouldn't have thought I was finally going crazy?"

"We've seen some weird stuff over the years. I might have believed you."

"Or you might have called the shrinks in because I was seeing things. Fuck, _I_ thought I was seeing things the first time Phil appeared."

"You did?"

Clint snorted. "Guy turns up in my apartment with big black wings and tells me some crazy story about true love and matching? Yeah, I thought I'd gone crazy at first."

"What made you change your mind?"

"I don't know." Clint paused thoughtfully. "I guess that I wanted to believe him. It sounded like a crazy story but...the idea of someone watching over us, trying to get us a happily ever after? That sounded like something I wanted to believe in."

"True love is a story we tell to children," Natasha said. "You used to believe that."

"Kind of hard to keep believing that when you've actually experienced it," Clint said with a wry smile.

"You really feel that much for him?"

"I really do."

"Think there's someone out there looking after me?"

There was a wistful note in Natasha's voice that Clint had never heard before. She'd always been so rigidly certain that love--the soul deep, romantic kind of love in books and films--was something she couldn't have.

"Phil says there's someone out there looking after everyone," Clint said. "Sometimes they're overworked and sometimes we drive them insane because we fuck up all their plans, but someone out there has your file."

"Hmm." Natasha still sounded sceptical but she took a sip of her coffee and seemed to dismiss the idea. "How is Phil settling in?"

"You saw him at the team breakfast," Clint said, trying to keep his tone completely neutral because he knew it would frustrate her. "How do you think he's settling in?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "We've seen him at two team breakfasts and supper last night. So far, the only thing I know about him is that he likes strong coffee and he puts strawberry cream cheese on his bagels, which is disgusting. You've spent the last few days pretty much locked into your apartment and don't even try to pretend you're not fucking like bunnies in there."

Clint plastered on his most innocent expression. "For your information, we're not. There's been a lot of paperwork involved in getting Phil established as a real person and we had to do a lot of shopping. I think he's dragged me into every tailor shop in Manhattan over the last three days."

"You, in a tailor shop?"

"Phil likes suits." Clint smiled as he remembered the delighted expression on Phil's face when he finally found the right suit and how much fun they'd had later exploring the process of undressing Phil without his magical insta-naked powers. "Phil didn't feel comfortable meeting all of you wearing my sweatpants."

"He looked pretty comfortable the first time we met him."

"He was in shock."

"Uh huh. Sure. And you were sticking your tongue down his throat to get him over the shock?"

Clint shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He hadn't thought about it in the moment, but Stark had sent him a bunch of photos that he'd "accidentally" taken and they looked a lot more pornographic than he'd actually realised at the time. It wasn't just that Phil was half naked, filthy, and sitting in his lap in the middle of smouldering rubble. It was the way they'd been kissing, the hands roaming everywhere, and the expression on their faces.

"Are you happy?" Natasha asked, raising her eyes to finally give him the kind of intense look that he couldn't lie to.

"Do you really need to ask me?"

"No, but I'd like to hear it anyway."

Clint smiled. "Yes, Nat, I'm happy. I'm happier than I've ever been."

"Because of him?"

"Because of him."

"What happens if he leaves?"

"Not going to happen," Clint said. "Trust me, this is it for both of us."

Natasha studied him for a long moment before a small, gentle smile curved her lips. "Good. Don't fuck this up."

"I'll try not to."

"Has he worked out what he's going to do now?"

"We've got some ideas," Clint said. "He thinks we need someone to coordinate the civilian support, make sure the police and EMTs and shit are in the right places while we get on with whatever weird monster we're fighting. Stark's planning to introduce him to Pepper the next time she's in town as well."

Natasha contemplated that idea carefully. "They'll be terrifying if they team up."

"Yeah, they will," Clint said with a wide, beatific smile. "He'll be amazing."

Natasha's laughter filled the coffee shop.

***

Phil paced nervously around the living area of Clint's apartment. If he'd still had corporeal wings, he knew they would have been fluffing and fluttering with his agitation and he missed having their comforting weight against his back. Or maybe, he missed having to concentrate on controlling them, on not letting his emotions show through them, because that effort had always grounded him in moments like this.

There was a small stack of papers on the dining table not far away. He had been trying to work on them all morning--the final pieces they'd need to turn him into a "real boy", as Clint kept trying to insist on calling the process--but for once paperwork hadn't held his attention. They would need to print new copies out later because he'd blotted and crossed out so many errors, he was sure they were completely unreadable now.

Phil forced himself to stop pacing and stand by the huge window so he could stare out at the New York skyline. Bright sunshine glinted off glass and steel under a bright blue sky. After a couple of minutes, Phil realised he was mentally tallying up buildings against successful matches and he snorted humourlessly at himself. Apparently it was easier to take the agent out of SHIELD than it was to take SHIELD out of the agent.

That thought brought him right back to the source of his worries and it took a real effort to keep his feet still when he really wanted to start pacing again.

This morning's discovery didn't have to mean anything bad. It didn't. In fact, he was fairly sure that the snatches of dreams he remembered from the night before indicated that this was a gift rather than a sign that something bad was happening.

It was Clint's reaction he was nervous about. Clint had adjusted to his sudden mortality surprisingly well and now...

Phil cut the thought off firmly. He was mortal. This was just a small enhancement to his mortality. A minor addition that he could already see the benefits to, and that was all.

The apartment door rattled and Phil jumped and spun around, his heart racing despite the pep talk he'd given himself. Clint looked happy and wind-swept as he entered the apartment and his smile widened when he saw Phil. He kicked the door closed behind him and Phil's breath caught in his throat at the speed and intent Clint approached him with. They'd only been apart for a few hours, but Clint had left while Phil was still half-asleep and they hadn't kissed good morning properly for the first time since...for the first time in their whole relationship.

The expression on Clint's face told Phil he was about to get thoroughly kissed and he wanted that, he really did, but if he let Clint kiss him then they'd never talk properly. There was never such a thing as just one quick kiss with Clint. One led to more and that usually led to nakedness and orgasms, which Phil wouldn't mind later, but right now they needed a serious discussion.

He'd never hung around to see the long-term part of relationships, but he was fairly sure that holding back important information until after sex was usually a bad idea.

So Phil held up a finger and Clint stopped a couple of feet away, his happy smile melting away into confusion.

"Phil?" he asked, sounding uncertain. "Is something wrong?"

"Not wrong, not exactly," Phil said, struggling to find the right words.

"That's not exactly reassuring," Clint said.

"I don't know where to start."

"Maybe at the beginning?"

Phil hesitated for a moment, still fumbling for the words he needed that wouldn't come. "Maybe it would be easier if I showed you."

"Showed me what?"

He shook his head and closed his eyes, pushing his concentration inward and shutting out Clint's concerned expression. It was getting easier each time he tried and after a moment he heard Clint make a soft, surprised sound.

"Are those...?"

Phil opened his eyes and turned his head so that he could see. The bright sunshine made their light fade almost to nothing, but the coruscating silver and gold were still just visible and he could make out the faint outline of feathers.

"I thought they took your wings away," Clint said, his voice sounding almost reverent. "Phil, those are...shit, they're beautiful."

Phil fanned his wings out, showing off their full span. They didn't feel like his old wings, there was no weight to them, but these wings felt strong and solid even though they seemed to be made of pure light.

"I didn't know about them until this morning," Phil said. "I thought they were gone forever. Mortal bodies can't support the kind of wings that agents have, they're a physical impossibility, and I'm mortal now. Apparently someone left me with a few sparks of something, though."

"You have magical wings?"

"Something like that."

"They're not a..." Clint trailed off and took a careful breath, as though he needed a moment to phrase his question perfectly. "They're not taking your mortality back, are they? This isn't some kind of sign that we've got, like, five days and then they're taking you back. Are they?"

Phil shook his head quickly. "No, definitely not."

"You're sure?"

"I'm as sure as I can be. My boss promised me a lifetime here. He's not going to break that promise."

Clint frowned thoughtfully. "Have you tried...do they work? Can you fly?"

For an answer, Phil pushed himself up and swept his wings down in one strong beat. He rose a couple of feet off the ground and hovered there, fanning the air with insubstantial wings that still managed to break all the physical rules just like his old ones had.

A smile slowly spread across Clint's face. "You can fly."

Phil allowed himself to descend and land carefully. "Apparently I can."

"Can you take a passenger?"

"I don't know yet."

The intent behind his words was obvious and Clint grinned as he understood their meaning. He stepped closer and put his arms around Phil's neck, holding on without strangling. Phil wrapped his arms firmly around Clint's waist and took a careful breath.

"Ready?" he asked.

Clint nodded. "Try it."

The last time he'd carried Clint, it had felt like his wings were tearing under the strain and ripping away from his shoulders. This time there was no pain, no agonising sense of defeat. Clint clutched at him convulsively when his feet left the ground, and he held on tight, but Phil felt light and free as they rose into the air. He held Clint close and rejoiced as Clint's breath puffed out against his neck, because it came from surprise and happiness rather than fear. They lifted slowly, carefully, until they were several feet up, and Phil wished they'd tried this outside for the first time because they could really _fly_.

"Phil," Clint said, his breath warming Phil's throat and sending pleasant shivers over his skin. "This is amazing."

"I think it's a gift from my boss," Phil said. "So I don't have to worry about you falling off buildings without a safety net. Not that you're allowed to go out there without a grappling arrow or two, but at least if it fails..."

"You'll catch me."

"I'll always catch you."

"That sounds like a promise." Clint's lips brushed Phil's ear as he spoke and Phil swallowed. "Is that a promise?"

"It's a promise," Phil said, his voice sounding unsteady in his ears.

"Good."

Clint tucked his head in against Phil's neck with a contented sigh. It was strangely comforting to drift quietly in mid-air with Clint in his arms, and Phil felt the last of his worries draining away with each minute that passed.

After a while, Clint said thoughtfully, "Think we could have sex up here?"

Phil spluttered for a moment. "Does everything end up being about sex for you?"

"When I'm around you, yes." Clint lifted his head and the smile curving his lips made Phil's heart skip. "You have that effect on me. It's amazing that I kept my hands off you for so long and I think we need to make up for that now."

"Sex up here wouldn't be practical," Phil said, trying to pretend he wasn't actually trying to work out the logistics.

"You're right," Clint said. "We'd probably need to be naked already before we leave the ground. Stripping you up here is going to be kind of tricky when we're holding onto each other. And we'd probably need a wall or something."

"A wall?"

"Hey, that's something we haven't tried yet. Wall sex. It's great."

Phil smiled, he couldn't help it. Clint seemed to have a big list of all the things they needed to try and he added at least three new things to it every day. He also had the most amazing capacity for adapting to new and strange things, like magical wings made from pure energy.

"How did things go with Natasha?" Phil asked.

"Great," Clint said. "She likes you. Are you trying to distract me from the aerial sex ideas?"

"I'm taking an interest in your daily activities. It's what people are supposed to do when they're in a relationship."

"Uh huh. Well done, you've ticked that box for the day. Are you going to kiss me yet? It's been way too long since we did that and we never got to kiss in the air when you were still an ang-agent."

Clint tasted of coffee and chocolate and Phil licked into his mouth hungrily, wanting more of that taste and the wet warmth inside. They'd brushed lips before Clint left for the coffee shop, while Phil was sleepy and barely coherent, but that felt like such a long time ago and Phil still couldn't understand why each touch only made him want Clint more. This was the part of the matching he'd always stayed away from, the part where people were living their happily ever after and falling more in love with each day.

It had always made his heart ache in a way he'd never understood before.

The pleased gasp Clint made when Phil sucked on his tongue was intoxicating. Phil didn't think he'd ever get tired of hearing those sounds and he hoped that Fury knew how grateful he was to be given this chance. A lifetime of loving Clint seemed like a greater reward than he deserved.

Phil wasn't aware that they'd been slowly sinking back to the ground until his feet touched the floor and Clint stumbled against him, breaking out of the kiss. The expression in Clint's eyes was wide and shining, a mixture of love and want and joy so strong it made the breath catch in Phil's throat.

"Can I touch your wings?" Clint asked.

It echoed his words from their first night together--the night Phil had thought would be their only one together--and he nodded mutely. At that time, Clint's hands had been strong and warm as he'd buried them in his feathers and stroked the soft down at the base of his wings until Phil had thought he might come just from those touches. This time Clint's hands passed through his wings, but the burst of warmth that flowed down them send Phil's heart racing and he gasped.

Clint's eyes widened and his eyebrows rose. "Does that hurt?"

"N-no," Phil stuttered. "Definitely no pain."

"Huh. That's new."

There was a wicked light in Clint's eyes as he slowly ran his hand along the tips of Phil's insubstantial feathers and his grin widened when Phil couldn't suppress another gasp.

"I like these wings," Clint said. "We get to fly _and_ they're turning you on. Who do I send the fruit basket to?"

Phil suspected the sensations racing through his body were an unplanned side-effect but he didn't intend to question it. Instead he hooked a hand around Clint's neck and pulled him into a messy kiss, trying to divert Clint's attention away from any potentially dangerous questions. The ploy worked for about five seconds--maybe ten--before Clint tore out of the kiss.

"You're trying to distract me, aren't you?" Clint said, sounding slightly breathless. "The wings are one of those agent things that you're not supposed to talk about yet."

"I think they might be," Phil said.

Clint shrugged and grinned. "OK, distract me. Distract me hard and I promise not to ask why you've got erogenous wing zones."

The sentence was so ridiculous, Phil couldn't help laughing, and a moment later Clint grinned and laughed as well. They were still chuckling when Clint kissed him and hooked a finger inside his jeans to guide him to the sofa. The laughter turned into soft groans when Phil stripped off Clint's t-shirt so he could kiss and nibble his way down the strong neck and chest he loved so much. Then the groans turned into gasps and muttered curses when Clint undressed him slowly, reverently, and pushed him down onto the sofa.

The feel of Clint's weight pinning him down against the cushions was everything Phil had wanted for all those months, and he didn't notice his shining wings fading away. All his attention was on the things Clint was doing to him, the filthy smile and even filthier kisses and the perfect, incredible way Clint could send him into shattering climaxes that burned away everything and left him filled to overflowing with love and happiness.

Clint kissed him sloppily when it was over and they were holding each other close while the last shivers of their orgasms slowly drained away. The sleepy contentment wasn't so foreign anymore and Phil hummed against Clint's lips, stroking the smooth skin of Clint's back and ass with no intent beyond soothing him into a nap.

"I love you," Clint said, tucking his head against Phil's shoulder with a small sigh. "How did I get this lucky?"

Phil smiled up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. "I don't know, but I'll probably owe someone a lot more than a fruit basket one day."


End file.
